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V 


V 


\A/ 


i        \ 


STORIES    AND    SKETCHES. 


STORIES  AND  SKETCHES 


OUR    BEST    AUTHORS. 


BOSTON: 

LEE      AND      SHEPARD. 

1867. 


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V. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

LEE    &    SHEPARD, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


I 


CONTENTS 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THB%ANQUET.       .    Sedey  Regester.  9 

LET  THOSE  LADOH  WHO  WIN.  .        .     /Samuel  W.  Tattle.  37 

THE  PROPER  USE  OF  GRANDFATHERS.  Fitz  Hugh  Ludlow.  61 

AT  EVE.      , ...        .       ....•:*..        .     Gertrude  Brock.  77 

BROKEN  IDOLS Richmond  Wolcott.  93 

DR.  HUOER'S  INTENTIONS.    .       Louise  Chandler  Moulton.  105 

THE  MAN  WHOSE  LIFE  WAS  SAVED.      .        *#***.  121 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  WESTERN  TRIP.  .        .     J.  L.  Lord.  157 
THE  Two  GHOSTS  OF  NEW  LONDON 

TURNPIKE Mrs.  Galpin.  185 

DOWN  BY  THE  SEA.       .        .        .  Hattie  Tyng  Griswdd.  229 

WHY  MRS.  RADNOR  FAINTED.  .        .        .     *****.  249 

UNDER  A  CLOUD William  Wirt  Sikes.  265 

COMING  FROM  THE  FRONT.        .        .   Richmond  Woloott.  281 

A  NIGHT  IN  THE  SEWERS.    .        .  Chas.  Dawson  Shanly.  293 


2054194 


I     f-l 


\  * 

I 


^ 


\ 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  BANQUET. 


j]K.  GKAHAM  sat  in  his  office,  his  book  closed 
on  his  knee,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  street. 
There  was  nothing  of  interest  to  be  seen.  A 
light  snow  was  falling,  making  the  pavement 
dreary  ;  but  it  was  Christmas,  and  his  thoughts 
had  gone  back  to  other  days,  as  people's  thoughts  will 
go  on  anniversary  occasions.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
young  wife  he  had  buried  three  years  and  three  months 
ago;  of  the  great  fireplace  in  his  boyhood's  home,  and 
his  mother's  face  lit  up  by  the  glow;  of  many  things 
past  which  were  pleasant;  and  reflecting  sadly  upon  the 
fact  that  life  grew  duller,  more  commonplace,  as  one 
grew  older.  Not  that  he  was  an  elderly  man, —  he  was, 
in  reality,  but  twenty-eight;  yet,  upon  that  Christmas 
day,  he  felt  old,  very  old;  his  wife  dead,  his  practice 
slender,  his  prospects  far  from  promising,  —  even  the 
slow-moving  days  daily  grew  heavier,  soberer,  more 
serious.  It  was  a  holiday,  but  he  had  not  even  an  invi- 
tation for  dinner,  where  the  happiness  of  friends  and  the 
free  flow  of  thought  might  lend  a  momentary  sparkle  to 
his  own  stale  spirits. 


\ 


10          The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

The  -doctor  was  not  of  a  melancholy,  despondent 
nature,  nor  did  he  rely  for  his  pleasures  upon  others. 
He  was  a  self-made  man,  and  self-reliant  to  an  unusual 
degree,  as  self-made  men  are  apt  to  be.  His  tussle  with 
circumstances  had  awakened  in  him  a  combative  and 
resistant  energy,  which  had  served  him  well  when 
means  were  scant  and  the  rewards  of  merit  few.  But 
there  is  something  in  the  festal  character  of  Christinas 
which,  by  luring  from  the  shadows  of  our  struggle-life 
the  boy  nature  of  us,  makes  homeless  men  feel  solitary; 
and,  from  being  forlorn,  the  mood  soon  grows  to  one  of 
painful  unrest  ;  all  from  beholding  happiness  from 
which  we  are  shut  out.  On  this  gray  afternoon  not  the 
most  fascinating  speculations  of  De  Boismont  and  the 
hospital  lectures,  —  not  the  consciousness  of  the  origin- 
ality and  importance  of  Ms  own  discoveries  in  the  field 
of  Sensation  and  Nerve  Force,  —  had  any  interest  for 
Dr.  Graham. 

That  he  had  talent  and  a  good  address ;  that  he  studied 
and  experimented  many  hours  every  day;  that  he  as 
thoroughly  understood  his  profession  as  was  consistent 
with  a  six  years'  actual  experience  as  an  actual  practi- 
tioner; that  there  was  nothing  of  the  quack  or  pretender 
in  him; — all  this  did  not  prevent  his  rent  from  being  high, 
his  patients  few,  and  his  means  limited.  With  no  influ- 
ential friends  to  recommend  and  introduce  him,  he  had 
resolutely  rented  a  room  in  a  genteel  locality  up  town, 
had  dressed  well,  and  had  worn  the  "  air  "  of  a  man  of 
business,  ever  ready  for  duty;  but  success  had  not 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.          n 

attended  upon  his  efforts,  and  the  future  gave  no  prom- 
ise of  a  change.  Of  this  he  was  thinking,  somewhat 
bitterly;  for  what  proud  soul  is  not  stung  with  un- 
merited neglect  ?  Then  a  deep  sadness  stole  over  him 
at  thoughts  of  the  loss  which  had  come  upon  his  early 
manhood,  —  a  loss  like  which  there  is  none  other  so 
abiding  hi  strong,  wise  hearts.  A  cloud  seemed  to  be 
sifting  down  and  closing  around  him,  which,  with  un- 
usual passivity,  he  seemed  unable  or  unwilling  to  shake 
off.  A  carriage  obstructed  his  view,  by  passing  in  front 
of  his  window.  It  stopped;  then  the  footman  de- 
scended, opened  the  carriage-door,  and  turned  to  the 
office-bell.  He  was  followed  by  his  master,  who  awaited 
the  answer  to  the  bell,  and  was  ushered  into  the  practi- 
tioner's presence  by  the  single  waiting-servant  of  his 
modest  establishment.  The  doctor  arose  to  receive  his 
guest,  who  was  a  man  still  younger  than  himself,  with 
something  of  a  foreign  air,  and  dressed  with  a  quiet 
richness  in  keeping  with  his  evident  wealth  and  position. 

"  Dr.  Graham  ?  » 

The  doctor  bowed  assent. 

"  If  you  are  not  otherwise  engaged,  I  would  like  you 
to  go  home  with  me,  to  see  my  sister,  who  is  not  well. 
There  is  no  great  haste  about  the  matter,  but  if  you  can 
go  now,  I  shall  be  glad  to  take  you  with  me.  It  will 
save  you  a  walk  through  the  snow." 

"  He  knows,"  thought  the  doctor,  "  that  I  do  not 
drive  a  carriage;"  and  that  a  stranger,  of  such  ability 
to  hire  the  most  noted  practitioners,  should  call  upon 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 


him,  was  a  source  of  unexpressed  surprise  and  sus- 
picion. 

"  What  do  you  think  is  the  matter  with  your  sister  ?  " 
he  unconcernedly  asked,  taking  his  overcoat  from  the 
wardrobe. 

"  That  is  for  you  to  decide.  It  is  a  case  of  no  ordi- 
nary character  —  one  which  will  require  study."  He 
led  the  way  at  once  to  the  door,  as  if  unwilling  to  delay, 
notwithstanding  he  had  at  first  stated  that  no  haste  was 
necessary.  "  Step  in,  doctor,  and  I  will  give  you  an 
inkling  of  the  case  during  the  drive,  which  will  occupy 
some  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes." 

"  In  the  first  place,"  continued  the  stranger,  as  they 
rolled  away,  "  I  will  introduce  myself  to  you  as  St. 
Victor  Marchand,  at  present  a  resident  of  your  city,  but 
recently  from  the  island  of  Madeira.  My  house  is  upon 
the  Fifth  Avenue,  not  far  from  Madison  Square.  My 
household  consists  only  of  myself  and  sister,  with  our 
servants.  I  have  the  means  to  remunerate  you  amply 
for  any  demands  we  may  make  upon  your  time  or  skill; 
and  I  ought  to  add,  one  reason  for  selecting  so  young  a 
physician  is,  that  I  think  you  will  be  the  more  able 
and  willing  to  devote  more  time  to  the  case  than  more 
famous  practitioners.  However,  you  are  not  unknown 
to  me.  I  have  heard  you  well-spoken  of;  and  I  remem- 
ber that,  when  you  were  a  student  in  Paris,  you  were 
mentioned  with  honor  by  the  college,  for  an  able  paper 
read  before  the  open  section  upon  the  very  subject  to 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.         13 

which  I  now  propose  to  direct  your  attention, —  mental 
disease,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"  A  case  of  insanity  ?  "  bluntly  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  And  yet  I  must  not  conceal  from 
you  that  I  fear  it" 

"  Give  me  some  of  the  symptoms.  Insanity  in  strong 
development,  or  aberration  of  faculties,  or  hallucina- 
tion ?  " 

"  I  cannot  reply.  It  is  one  and  all,  it  seems  to  me. 
The  fact  is,  doctor,  I  wish  to  introduce  you  to  your 
patient  simply  as  a  friend  of  mine,  so  as  to  give  you  an 
opportunity  for  studying  my  sister's  case,  unembarrassed 
by  any  suspicion-  on  her  part.  To  excite  her  suspicions 
is  to  frustrate  all  hopes  of  doing  anything  for  or  with 
her.  Can  you  —  will  you  —  do  me  the  favor  to  dine  with 
me  this  evening  ?  It  is  now  only  about  an  hour  to  six, 
and  if  you  have  no  other  engagement,  I  will  do  my  best 
to  entertain  you,  and  you  can  then  meet  my  sister  as 
her  brother's  guest.  Shall  it  be  so  ?  " 

The  young  man's  tones  were  almost  beseeching,  and 
his  manner  betrayed  the  most  intense  solicitude.  Quite 
ready  to  accede  to  the  request,  from  curiosity  as  well  as 
from  a  desire  to  reassure  the  young  man,  Dr.  Graham 
did  not  hesitate  to  say,  "  Willingly,  sir,  if  it  will  assist 
in  a  professional  knowledge  of  the  object  of  my  call." 

The  change  from  the  office  to  the  home  into  which 

the  physician  was  introduced  was  indeed  grateful  to 

the  doctor's  feelings.    The  light,  warmth,  and  splendor 

of  the  rooms  gave  to  the  home  an  air  of  tropical  sensu- 

2 


14          The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

ousness;  and  yet  an  exquisite  taste  seemed  to  preside 
over  all.  Though  not  unfamiliar  with  elegance,  this 
home  of  the  brother  and  sister  wore,  to  the  visitor,  an 
enchanted  look,  as  well  from  the  foreign  character  of 
many  of  its  adornments  and  the  rare  richness  of  its 
works  of  art,  as  from  the  gay,  friendly,  enthusiastic 
manner  of  his  entertainer,  —  a  manner  never  attained 
by  English  or  Americans.  Sending  word  to  Miss  Mar- 
chand  that  there  would  be  a  guest  to  dinner,  St.  Victor 
fell  into  a  sparkling  conversation,  discoursing  most  in- 
telligibly of  Paris,  Madeira,  the  East  Indies,  and  South 
America,  taking  his  guest  from  room  to  room  to  show 
this  or  that  curious  specimen  of  the  productions  or 
handicraft  of  each  country.  As  the  articles  exhibited 
were  rare,  and  many  of  them  of  scientific  value,  and  as 
the  young  man's  knowledge  kept  pace  with  his  eloquence 
of  discourse,  Dr.  Graham  was  agreeably  absorbed. 

An  hour  passed  rapidly.  Then  the  steward  announced 
dinner;  but  it  was  not  until  they  were  about  seating 
themselves  at  table  that  the  patient  made  her  appearance. 
It  was  now  twilight  out  of  doors.  The  curtains  were 
drawn  and  the  dining-room  lit  only  by  wax  tapers, 
under  whose  soft  radiance  bloomed  an  abundance  of 
flowers,  mostly  of  exotic  beauty  and  fragrance.  It  was 
evident  that  the  young  master  of  the  house  brought 
with  him  his  early  tastes. 

"  We  have  an  extra  allowance  of  light  and  flowers,  and 
a  little  feast,  too,  I  believe;  for  neither  myself  nor  my 
English  steward  here  forget  that  this  is  Christmas. 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.         15 

Don't  you  think  it  a  beautiful  holiday  ?  My  mother 
always  kept  it  with  plenty  of  wax  candles  and  flowers." 

"  Jt  is  a  sacred  day  to  me,"  answered  the  doctor,  sad- 
ly, thinking  of  his  lost  wife  and  of  the  three  times  they 
had  kept  it  together,  with  feasting  and  love's  delights. 

At  this  moment  Miss  Marchand  floated  into  the  room 
and  to  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  —  a  girlish 
creature,  who  gave  their  guest  a  smile  when  the  brother 
said,  — 

"Dr.  Graham  is  not  entirely  a  stranger,  Edith;  he 
was  in  Paris  when  we  were  there.  You  were  a  child, 
then.  I  was  indeed  glad  to  meet  him  in  this  strange 
city,  and  I  mean  that  we  shall  be  friends  upon  a  visiting 
footing,  if  he  will  permit  it."  ^ 

It  was  but  natural  for  the  physician  to  fix  a  piercing 
look  upon  the  face  of  her  whom  he  had  been  given  to 
understand  was  to  be  his  patient,  and  whose  disease  was 
of  a  character  to  command  his  best  skill.  His  physi- 
cian's eye  detected  no  outward  tokens  of  ill  health,  either 
of  body  or  of  mind.  A  serene  brow,  sweet,  steady,  lov- 
ing eyes,  cheeks  rosy  and  full  with  maiden  health,  a 
slender  though  not  thin  figure,  all  were  there  before 
him,  giving  no  indication  even  of  the  "nervousness" 
assumed  to  be  so  common  with  young  ladies  of  this 
generation.  Exquisite  beauty,  allied  with  perfect  health, 
seemed  to  "blush  and  bloom"  all  over  her;  and  the 
medical  man  would  have  chosen  her,  with  professional 
enthusiasm,  as  his  ideal  of  what  a  young  woman  ought 
to  be.  Her  pink-silk  robe  adapted  itsejif  to  her  soft 


16          The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

form  as  naturally  as  the  petals  of  a  rose  to  its  curving 
sweetness.  Only  to  look  upon  her  gladdened  the  sad 
heart  of  Dr.  Graham,  the  wifeless  and  childless.  He 
felt  younger  than  he  had  felt  for  years,  as  thirsty  grass 
feels  under  the  influence  of  a  June  sun  after  a  morning 
of  showers.  His  spirits  rose,  and  he  talked  well,  even 
wittily,  —  betraying  not  only  his  varied  learning  as  a 
student  and  his  keen  powers  of  observation  as  a  man  of 
the  world,  but  also  the  gentleness  and  grace  which,  in 
his  more  active,  worldly  life,  were  too  much  put  aside. 
It  was  a  little  festival,  in  which  the  dainty  dishes,  the 
fruit,  and  wine  played  but  a  subordinate  part. 

Nothing  could  be  more  apparent  than  the  pride  and 
affection  with  which  Mr^archand  regarded  his  sister. 
Was  there,  indeed,  a  skeleton  at  this  feast  ?  The  doc- 
tor shuddered  as  he  asked  himself  the  question.  All  his 
faculties  were  on  the  alert  to  deny  and  disprove  the  pos- 
sibility of  the  presence  of  the  hideous  visitor.  His  sym- 
pathies were  too  keenly  enlisted  to  be  willing  to 
acknowledge  its  existence  even  in  the  background  of 
that  day  or  the  days  to  come  to  that  household.  Yet, 
ever  and  anon,  in  the  midst  of  their  joyousness,  a 
strange  look  would  leap  from  the  quick,  dark  eyes  of 
St.  Victor,  as  he  fixed  them  upon  his  sister's  face,  and 
an  expression  would  flit  across  his  own  face  inscrutable 
to  the  watchful  physician.  With  a  slight  motion  of  his 
hand  or  head  he  would  arrest  and  direct  the  doctor's 
attention,  who  would  then  perceive  Miss  Marchand's  lu- 
minous glance  changing  into  a  look  expressive  of  anxi- 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.         17 

ety  and  terror,  the  glow  of  her  cheeks  fading  into  a  pallor 
like  that  of  one  in  a  swoon.  But,  strange  !  an  instant 
would  change  it  all.  The  pallor,  lingering  but  a  mo- 
ment, would  melt  away  as  a  mist  before  the  sun,  and  the 
roses  would  come  back  to  the  cheeks  again  in  all  their 
rosiness.  The  host  would  divert  his  companion's  star- 
tled attention  by  gracefully  pressing  the  viands  upon  his 
notice,  or  by  some  brilliant  sally,  so  scintillating  with  wit 
or  droll  wisdom,  as  to  have  brought  the  smile  to  an  an- 
chorite's eyes. 

"  I  pray  you  watch  her  !  Did  you  not  notice  that 
slight  incoherency  ?  "  he  remarked,  in  a  whisper,  lean- 
ing over  toward  the  doctor. 

The  doctor  had  noticed  nothing  but  the  playful  badi- 
nage of  a  happy  girl. 

"  I  am  afraid  her  loveliness  blinds  my  judgment.  1 
must  see  what  there  is  in  all  this,"  he  answered  to  him- 
self, deprecatingly. 

They  sat  long  at  table.  Not  that  any  one  ate  to  ex- 
cess, though  the  pompous  English  steward  served  up 
one  delicious  dish  after  another,  including  the  time- 
honored  Christmas  feast  requisite,  —  the  plum-pudding, 
—  which  was  tasted  and  approved,  not  to  wound  the 
Briton's  national  and  professional  vanity,  but  sent  off, 
but  slightly  shorn  of  its  proportions,  to  grace  the  ser- 
vants' table. 

The  guest  noticed  that  St  Victor  partook  very  spar- 
ingly of  food,  although  he  fully  enjoyed  the  occasion. 
Save  tasting  of  the  wild  game  and  its  condiment  of  real 
2* 


i8          The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

Calcutta  currie,  he  ate  nothing  of  the  leading  dishes  or 
entrees.  Neither  did  he  drink  much  wine,  whose  quality 
was  of  the  rarest,  being  of  his  own  stock  drawn  from 
his  father's  rich  store  in  his  Madeira  cellar.  Of  the  lus- 
cious grapes  and  oranges  which  formed  a  leading  feature 
of  the  dessert,  he  partook  more  freely,  as  if  they  cooled 
his  tongue.  That  there  was  fever,  and  nervous  excite- 
ment, hi  the  young  man's  frame,  was  evident.  Indeed, 
to  the  doctor's  observant  eye,  the  brother  appeared  more 
delicate,  and  of  a  temperament  more  highly  nervous 
than  his  sister. 

The  frankness,  the  almost  childish  confidence  and 
open-heartedness  of  the  young  people  formed  one  of 
their  greatest  attractions  to  the  usually  reticent,  thought- 
ful physician.  He  felt  his  own  impulses  expanding  un- 
der the  warmth  of  their  sunny  natures  until  the  very 
romance  of  his  boyhood  stirred  again,  and  sprouted 
through  the  mould  in  which  it  lay  dormant.  There  was 
nothing  in  their  past  history  or  present  prospects  which, 
seemingly,  they  cared  to  conceal,  so  that  he  had  become 
possessed  of  a  pretty  fair  history  of  their  lives  before 
the  last  course  came  upon  the  board.  Both  were  born 
in  the  island  of  Madeira.  St.  Victor  was  twenty-four, 
Edith  nineteen,  years  of  age.  Their  mother  was  the 
daughter  of  an  American  merchant,  long  resident  on  the 
island  ;  their  father  was  a  French  gentleman  of  fortune, 
who  had  retired  to  the  island  for  his  health,  had  loved 
and  won  the  fair  American  girl,  and  lived  with  her  a 
life  of  almost  visionary  beauty  and  happiness.  Their 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.          19 

father  had  joined  their  grandfather  in  eome  of  his  mer- 
cantile ventures  ;  hence  those  voyages  to  the  Indies,  to 
South  America,  to  the  Mediterranean  in  which  the 
children  were  participants.  They  also  had  spent  a  couple 
of  years  in  France,  cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  their 
relatives  there,  and  adding  some  finishing  touches  to  St. 
Victor's  education,  which,  having  been  conducted  under 
his  father's  eye  by  accomplished  tutors,  was  unusually 
thorough  and  varied  for  one  so  young.  This  fact  the 
doctor  surmised  during  the  progress  of  the  banquet, 
though  he  did  not  ascertain  the  full  extent  of  the  young 
man's  accomplishments  until  a  future  day.  Nor  was 
Edith's  education  overlooked.  She  was  in  a  remarkable 
degree  fitted  to  be  the  companion  and  confidante  of  her 
brother,  —  sympathizing  in  his  tastes,  reading  his  books, 
enjoying  his  pastimes,  and  sharing  his  ambitions  to  their 
utmost.  It  was  a  beautiful  blending  of  natures,  —  such 
as  the  world  too  rarely  beholds,  —  such  as  our  received 
"systems"  of  education  and  association  cannot  pro- 
duce. 

Their  grandfather  had  been  dead  for  several  years  ; 
their  father  for  three,  their  mother  for  two.  "  She  faded 
rapidly  after  father's  death,  —  drooped  like  a  frost- 
blighted  flower,"  said  St.  Victor.  "  They  had  been  too 
happy  in  this  world  to  remain  long  apart  in  the  next." 

"  You  now  see,  doctor,"  the  narrator  of  these  family 
reminiscences  at  length  said,  "  why  Edith  and  myself  are 
so  unlike.  My  sister  is  her  mother  over  again,  fair 
and  bright,  like  your  New  York  ladies,  —  among  the 


2O          The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

most  beautiful  women,  in  many  respects,  I  have  ever 
seen.  I  am  dark  and  thin,  —  a  very  Frenchman  in  tastes, 
temperament,  and  habits." 

He  toyed  a  few  moments  with  an  orange  ;  then,  again 
leaning  toward  the  physician,  he  said,  in  that  sharp 
whisper  which  once  before  during  the  evening  he  had 
made  use  of,  — 

"  I  will  tell  you  all,  doctor.  My  father  died  insane. 
We  afterwards  learned  that  it  was  one  of  the  inheritances 
of  his  haughty  and  wealthy  family.  The  peace  and  de- 
light which  he  had  with  his  wife  and  children  long  de- 
layed the  terrible  legacy;  but  it  fell  due  at  last.  He 
died  a  maniac,  —  a  raving  maniac.  She  does  not  know 
it.  It  killed  her  mother.  Imagine,  doctor,  imagine,  if 
you  can,  how  I  watch  over  her  I  how  I  pity  !  how  I 
dread  !  O  God  !  to  think  that  I  must  detect  those  symp- 
toms, as  I  have  done  during  the  last  six  months.  I  have 
seen  the  virus  in  her  eyes  to-night.  I  have  not  breathed 
a  word  to  her  of  my  knowledge  and  convictions;  but  I 
am  as  certain  of  it  as  that  she  sits  there.  Look  at  her 
now,  doctor,  —  now/"  —  with  a  stealthy  side-glance 
at  the  beautiful  girl  who,  at  the  moment,  was  smiling 
absently  over  a  flower  which  she  had  taken  from  its 
vase,  —  smiling  only  as  girls  can,  —  as  if  it  interpreted 
something  deeper  than  a  passing  thought. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  strain  of  agony  in  the 
young  man's  voice;  his  sudden  pallor;  the  sweat  start- 
ing from  his  forehead;  or  to  describe  the  piercing  power 
of  his  eye,  as  he  turned  it  from  the  face  of  his  sister  to 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.          21 

that  of  his  guest.  Accustomed  as  he  was  to  every  form 
of  suffering,  Dr.  Graham  shrank  from  the  appeal  in  that 
searching  look,  which  mutely  asked  him  if  there  were 
any  hope. 

The  clear  whisper  in  which  St.  Victor  had  spoken 
aroused  Edith  from  her  revery;  she  darted  a  glance  at 
both  parties,  so  full  of  suspicion  and  dread,  so  in  con- 
trast with  her  natural  sunny  expression,  that  it  was  as 
if  her  face  had  suddenly  withered,  from  that  of  a  child, 
to  the  thin  features  of  the  careworn  woman -of  fifty.  She 
half  rose  in  her  chair,  faltered,  sank  back,  and  sat  gaz- 
ing fixedly  at  the  two  men ;  yet  silent  as  a  statue. 

St.  Victor  was  the  first  to^recover  himself.  He  burst 
into  a  light  laugh,  —  sweet  as  a  shower  of  flowers,  —  and, 
taking  up  a  slender-necked  decanter  of  pale  wine,  passed 
it  to  his  guest,  remarking,  — 

"  We  are  forgetting  that  this  is  Christmas  night.  Fill 
your  glass,  my  friend,  with  this  wine,  —  the  oldest  and 
rarest  of  our  precious  store,  —  and  I  will  fill  mine. 
Then,  we  will  both  drink  joyously  to  the  health  of  my 
only  darling  —  my  one  beloved  —  my  sister." 

He  said  this  so  prettily,  poured  out  the  wine  with  such 
arch  pleasantry  of  gesture,  that  the  color  came  back  to 
Edith's  cheeks;  and  when  the  two  men  bowed  to  her, 
before  drinking,  she  gave  them  a  smile,  steeped  in  mel- 
ancholy, but  very  sweet,  and  brimming  with  affection. 
It  thrilled  Dr.  Graham's  veins  more  warmly  than  the 
priceless  wine. 

"  After  our  mother's  death,"  continued  St.  Victor,  in 


22          The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

his  natural  voice, "  we  found  ourselves  quite  alone.  "We 
had  formed  no  great  attachment  10  our  relatives  in 
France;  and,  as  one  branch  of  our  father's  business  re- 
mained still  unsettled  in  this  country,  we  resolved  to 
come  hither.  Then,  too,  we  had  a  longing  to  behora  the 
land  which  was  our  mother's.  When  we  had  arranged 
and  closed  up  our  affairs  in  Madeira,  we  sailed  for 
Trance,  where  we  spent  one  winter  only.  I  thought "  — 
with  a  tender  glance  at  his  sister  —  "  that  a  sea  voyage 
would  do  Edith  good.  I  was  not  satisfied  about  her 
health;  so  I  drew  her  away  from  Paris,  and,  last  spring, 
we  fulfilled  our  promise  to  see  our  mother's  land,  and 
came  hither.  I  am  afrai<J  the  climate  here  does  not 
agree  with  her.  Do  you  think  she  looks  well  ?  " 

The  girl  moved  uneasily,  casting  a  beseeching  look  at 
the  speaker. 

"  It  is  not  I  who  am  not  strong,"  she  said  ;  "  it  is  you, 
St.  Victor.  If  your  friend  is  a  doctor,  I  wish  he  would 
give  a  little  examination  into  the  state  of  your  health. 
You  are  thin  and  nervous;  you  have  no  appetite,— 
while  he  can  see,  at  a  glance,  that  nothing  in  the  world 
ails  me." 

Again  her  brother  laughed;  not  gayly  as  before,  but 
with  a  peculiar  and  subtle  significance ;  while  he  gave 
the  doctor  another  swift  glance,  saying  to  him  in  a  low 
voice,  — 

"I  have  heard  that  persons  threatened  with  certain 
mental  afflictions  never  suspect  their  own  danger." 

Dr.  Graham  did  not  know  if  the  young  lady  overheard 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.          23 

this  remark;  he  glanced  toward  her,  but  her  eyes  again 
were  upon  the  flowers,  which  she  was  pulling  to  pieces. 
He  perceived  that  her  lips  trembled;  but  she  still  smiled, 
scattering  the  crimson  leaves  over  the  white  clothes. 

At  this  period  of  his  novel  visit,  — just  then  and  there, 
when  St.  Victor  laughed  that  subtle  laugh  and  his  sister 
vacantly  destroyed  the  red  flower,  —  a  conviction  rushed 
into  the  physician's  mind,  or  rather,  we  may  say,  pierced 
it  through  like  a  ray  of  light  in  a  darkened  room. 

Instantly  all  was  clear  to  him.  From  that  moment 
he  was  cool  and  watchful,  but  so  pained  with  this  eud- 
den  knowledge  of  the  true  state  of  the  case  that  he 
wished  himself  well  out  of  that  splendid  house,  back  in 
his  own  dreary  office.  He  wished  himself  away,  because 
he  already  loved  these  young  people,  and  his  sympathy 
with  them  was  too  keen  to  allow  him  further  to  enjoy 
himself;  yet,  in  all  his  medical  experience,  he  had  never 
been  so  interested  with  a  professional  interest.  As  a 
physician,  he  felt  a  keen  pleasure;  as  a  friend,  a  keen 
pain.  His  faculties  each  sprang  to  its  post,  awaiting 
the  next  development  of  the  scene. 

While  Mr.  Marchand  was  giving  some  order  to  his 
steward,  the  beautiful  girl  at  his  other  hand  leaned  to- 
ward him,  and  also  whispered  confidentially  in  his  ear: 
"  Dr.  Graham,  if  you  really  are  my  brother's  friend,  I 
pray  you  watch  him  closely,  and  tell  me  at  some  future 
time  if  you  have  any  fears  —  any  suspicions  of —  Oh, 
I  implore  you,  sir,  do  not  deceive  me  !  " 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  her  voice  choked. 


24          The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

The  thing  was  absurd.  Its  ludicrous  aspect  struck 
the  listener,  almost  forcing  him  to  laugh;  while  the 
tears,  at  the  same  time,  arose  responsive  in  his  own 
eyes. 

A  clock  on  the  mantel  chimed  nine.  The  steward 
placed  on  the  board  the  last  delicacies  of  the  feast,  — 
Neapolitan  creams  and  orange-water  ice. 

"  Edith  chooses  luscious  things  like  creams,"  remarked 
her  brother.  "  Which  will  you  have,  doctor  ?  As  for 
me,  I  prefer  ices;  they  cool  my  warm  blood,  which  is 
fierce  like  tropic  air.  Ah,  this  is  delicious  1  I  am  fe- 
verish, I  believe;  and  the  scent  of  the  orange  brings 
back  visions  of  our  dear  island  home." 

He  paused,  as  if  his  mind  were  again  on  the  vine-clad 
hills  of  the  "  blessed  isle."  Then  he  spoke,  suddenly,  — 

"  Edith,  have  some  of  this  ?  " 

She  smiled,  shaking  her  head. 

"  But  you  must.  I  insist.  You  need  it.  Don't  you 
agree  with  me,  doctor,  that  it  is  just  what  she  re- 
quires ?  " 

He  spoke  in  a  rising  key,  with  a  rapid  accent.  Edith 
reached  forth  her  hand,  and  took  the  little  dish  of 
orange  ice.  It  shook  like  a  lily  in  the  wind;  but  she 
said,  softly  and  with  apparent  calmness,  — 

"Anything  to  please  you,  brother.  I  will  choose 
this  every  day  if  you  think  it  good  for  me." 

He  gave  her  a  satisfied  look.  Then  there  was  a  brief 
silence,  which  their  guest  was  about  to  dissipate  with 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.          25 

a  playful  remark,  when  St.  Victor  turned  abruptly  to 
the  steward,  — 

"  Thompson,"  he  cried,  "  now  bring  in  the  skeleton  1 " 

"  "What,  sir  ?  "  stammered  the  astonished  servant. 

"Bring  in  the  skeleton,  I  said.  Do  you  not  know 
that  the  Egyptians  always  crown  their  feasts  with  a 
death's  head  ?  Bring  it  in,  I  say,  and  place  il  —  there  /" 

Half-rising  in  his  seat,  he  pointed  to  the  vacant  space 
behind  his  sister's  chair. 

The  man  now  smiled,  thinking  his  master  jested;  but 
his  expression  grew  more  questioning  and  anxious  as 
the  bright  eyes  turned  upon  him  glittering  in  anger. 

"  "Why  am  I  not  obeyed  ?  Bring  in  the  skeleton, 
I  repeat,  and  place  it  behind  my  sister's  chair.  It  is  in 
the  house;  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  it.  It 
has  lurked  here  long.  I  have  been  aware  of  its  presence 
these  many  months,  —  always  following,  following  my 
dear  Edith,  —  a  shadow  in  her  steps.  You  see  how 
young  and  fair  she  is;  but  it  is  all  hollow  —  ashes  — 
coffin-dust !  She  does  not  know  of  it;  she  has  never  even 
turned  her  head  when  it  lurked  behind  her;  but  to-night 
she  must  make  its  acquaintance.  It  will  not  longer  be 
put  off.  Our  feast  is  nearly  over.  Bring  it  in,  Thomp- 
son, and  we  will  salute  it." 

The  steward,  with  a  puzzled  look,  turned  from  one  to 
another  of  the  company.  Miss  Marchand  had  risen  to 
her  feet,  and  was  regarding  her  brother  with  terrified 
eyes,  stretching  out  her  hands  toward  him.  The  doctor, 
too,  arose,  not  in  excitement,  but  with  commingled  pain 
3 


26  The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

and  resolution  stamped  upon  his  features;  while  his 
gaze  rested  upon  the  face  of  St.  Victor  until  the  eyes  of 
the  young  man  were  riveted  and  arrested  by  the  doc- 
tor's demeanor.  A  flush  then  diffused  itself  gradually 
over  Marchand's  pale  countenance;  his  thin  nostrils 
quivered;  his  fingers  twitched  and  trembled  and  sought 
his  bosom,  as  if  in  search  of  something  concealed  there. 
Then  he  laughed  once  more  that  short,  nervous  laugh  so 
significant  to  the  physician's  ears,  and  cried,  in  a  high 
tone, — 

"  So,  Edith,  you  did  not  know  that  you  were  going 
mad  ?  I  did.  I've  watched  you  night  and  day  this  long 
time.  I  have  all  along  been  afraid  it  would  end  as  it 
has  —  on  Christmas  night.  That  was  the  day  our  father 
tried  to  murder  our  mother.  An  anniversary,  then,  we 
have  to-night  celebrated.  Ha,  ha  !  And  you  didn't 
know  the  skeleton  was  awaiting  admittance  to  the  ban- 
quet !  " 

His  eyes  gleamed  with  a  light  at  once  of  delight  and 
with  malice ;  but  he  quietly  added,  — 

"  But  I  shall  not  harm  you,  you  demented  thing,  you 
beautiful  insanity.  There!  doctor,  didn't  I  tell  you  to 
watch  her  —  to  read  her  —  to  comprehend  the  subtle 
thing  ?  So  full  of  art  and  duplicity  !  But  look  at  her 
now — now!  She  is  as  mad  as  the  serpent  which  has 
poisoned  itself  with  its  own  fangs  —  mad  —  mad  !  O 
God  !  has  it  come  to  this  ?  But,  I  knew  it  —  knew  the 
skeleton  was  her  skeleton  —  the  bones  without  her  beau- 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.          27 

tiful  flesh.  We've  had  enough  of  it  now.  Take  it 
away,  Thompson,  —  hurry  it  away  1 " 

"  Appear  to  obey  him.  Pretend  that  you  take  some- 
thing from  the  room,"  said  Dr.  Graham,  in  an  under- 
tone, to  the  servant,  while  St.  Victor's  eyes  were  fixed 
glaring  and  lurid  upon  his  trembling,  agonized,  speech- 
less sister. 

The  skeleton  had,  in  truth,  appeared  at  the  Christmas 
feast. 

Laying  his  hand  firmly  upon  the  young  man's  wrist 
the  doctor  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Marchand,  you're  not  well,  to-night.  You  are 
over-fatigued.  Shall  we  go  upstairs  ?  " 

St.  Victor's  quickly  flashing  gaze  was  met  by  that 
clear,  resolute,  almost  fierce  response  in  the  physician's 
eye,  before  which  he  hesitated,  then  shrank.  The  mad- 
man had  his  master  before  him. 

"  You  are  right.  I  am  not  very  well;  my  head  aches; 
I'm  worn  out  with  this  trouble  about  Edith,  doctor. 
Do  you  think  it  is  hopeless  ?  She  had  better  come  with 
us.  I  don't  like  to  leave  her  alone  with  that  hideous 
shape  at  her  back." 

Obeying  the  gentle  but  firm  pull  upon  his  wrist,  the 
brother  turned  to  leave  the  room,  looking  back  wistfully 
upon  his  sister.  She  was  following  them  with  clasped 
hands,  and  a  face  from  which  all  youth  and  color  had 
fled.  St.  Victor  suddenly  paused,  gave  a  scream  like  the 
cry  of  a  panther,  wrenched  himself  quickly  from  the 
grasp  upon  his  arm,  and,  in  an  instant,  hia  teeth  were 


28  The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

buried  in  the  white  shoulder  of  his  sister.  But  only  for 
an  instant,  for  almost  as  quickly  as  the  madman's  move- 
ment had  been  the  doctor's.  One  terrible  blow  of  his 
fist  sent  the  maniac  to  the  floor  like  a  clod. 

"  O  doctor  !  why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  To  save  your  life,  Miss  Marchand." 

"  Poor  St.  Victor  !    His  fate  is  on  him  at  last." 

Her  voice  was  calm  in  its  very  despair.  She  sank 
down  beside  the  senseless  man,  lifting  the  worn,  white 
face  to  her  lap  and  covering  it  with  kisses.  "  I  saw  it, 
—  yet  I  did  not  think  it  would  come  so  soon.  O  God  ! 
be  pitiful  !  Have  I  not  prayed  enough  ?  " 

The  lips  of  the  injured  man  began  to  quiver.  "  We 
must  bind  him  and  get  him  to  bed  before  he  fully  re- 
covers," said  the  doctor,  lifting  Edith  to  her  feet. 
"  Here,  Thompson,  help  me  to  carry  him  to  his 
bed." 

When  the  maniac  recovered  consciousness  fully,  hi.-j 
ravings  were  fearful.  It  was  the  malady  of  frenzy  in 
its  most  appalling  condition.  The  extent  of  the  mental 
wreck  Dr.  Graham  had,  for  the  last  half  hour  of  the 
feast,  been  trying  to  fathom.  When  he  dealt  that  dread- 
ful blow  he  knew  the  wreck  was  complete:  reason  had 
gone  out  forever  with  that  panther-like  shriek.  All 
that  could  be  done  was  to  secure  the  maniac  against 
injury  to  himself  or  others,  and  to  administer  such 
anti-spasmodics  or  anaesthetics  as,  in  some  degree, 
would  control  the  paroxysms. 

Poor  St.  Victor  !     So  young,  so  gifted,  so  blest  with 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.          29 

worldly  goods ;  his  fate  was  upon  him,  as  Edith  had 
said. 

From  that  hour  he  had  but  brief  respite  from  tor- 
ment. Not  a  gleain  of  sanity  came  from  those  fiery 
eyes;  all  was  fierce,  untamable,  inhuman,  as  if  the  life 
had  been  one  of  storm  and  crime,  instead  of  peace  and 
purity.  Did  there  lay  upon  that  racking  bed  a  proof  of 
the  natural  depravity  of  the  creature  man,  when  the 
creature  was  uncontrolled  by  a  reasoning,  responsible 
will  ?  Or,  was  it  not  rather  a  proof  that  the  mental 
machine  was  in  disorder,  by  a  distention  of  the  blood- 
vessels and  their  engorgement  in  the  brain,  —  that  cere- 
bral excitement  was  a  purely  physical  phenomenon,  de- 
pendent upon  simple,  physical  causes,  which  science 
some  day  shall  define  and  skill  shall  counteract  ? 

Happily,  the  fire  in  the  sufferer's  brain  scorched  and 
consumed  the  sources  of  his  life,  as  flames  drink  up  the 
water  that  is  powerless  to  quench  them.  Day  by  day 
he  wasted;  and,  in  less  than  a  month  from  that  night, 
—  Christmas  evening,  —  St.  Victor  Marchand's  form  was 
at  peace  in  death. 

During  all  that  time  Dr.  Graham  never  left  the  suffer- 
er's bedside.  Day  and  night  he  was  there  at  his  post, 
doing  all  that  was  possible  to  alleviate  the  pain.  The 
skill  of  a  physician  and  the  love  of  a  brother  were  ex- 
hausted in  that  battle  with  death  in  its  most  dreaded 
form. 

His  care  was.  too,  required  for  Miss  Edith.  Her  life 
was  so  interwoven  with  that  of  her  brother,  that  the 
3* 


3O          The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

doctor  doubted  if  she  could  survive  the  shock  to  her 
sympathies  and  affection.  When  the  surprise  of  the 
tragedy  was  over,  on  the  day  following  the  first  out- 
burst of  the  malady,  she  told  him  that  for  months  she 
had  feared  the  worst.  She  had  remarked  symptoms  so 
like  her  father's  as  to  excite  her  fears;  yet,  with  the 
happiness  of  youth,  the  sister  persuaded  herself  that  her 
apprehensions  were  groundless.  His  sunny  nature 
seemed  proof  against  the  approach  of  an  evil  so 
blasting;  and  her  momentary  fears  were  banished  by 
the  very  mood  of  heightened  vivacity  and  excitement 
which  had  awakened  them.  Having  no  intimate  friend 
in  whom  to  confide,  none  to  counsel,  she  had  borne  the 
weight  of  her  inward  sorrow  and  dread  alone. 

At  intervals,  during  Christmas  day,  she  had  observed 
an  incoherency  in  her  brother's  speech,  and  an  unwonted 
nervousness  of  manner,  which  had  inspired  her  with  seri- 
ous alarm.  When  he  proposed  to  drive  out,  she  encour- 
aged the  suggestion,  hoping  that  the  cold  air  might  re- 
store him  to  his  usual  state.  Upon  his  return  with  Dr. 
Graham,  he  had  seemed  so  entirely  like  himself,  so  hap- 
py, so  disposed  to  enjoyment,  that  she  once  more  dis- 
missed every  thought  of  danger,  until  she  overheard  the 
sharp  whispers  in  which  he  addressed  his  guest. 

"  And  oh,  to  think,"  she  cried,  while  the  tears  rained 
down  her  cheeks,  "  that  in  his  love  for  me,  his  madness 
should  take  the  shape  of  beholding  the  conditions  of  his 
own  brain  reflected  in  mine  I  He  was  so  afraid  harm 
would  come  to  me,  —  thoughtful  of  me  so  long  as  even 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.          31 

the  shadow  of  sanity  remained.  Dear,  dear  St.  Victor, 
—  so  good,  so  pure,  so  wise  !  Why  was  not  I  the  vic- 
tim, if  it  was  fated  that  there  must  be  one  ?  "  Then  lift- 
ing her  tearful  eyes,  —  "  Doctor,  perhaps  the  poison  lurks 
in  my  veins,  too  !  Tell  me,  do  you  think  there  is  danger 
that  I,  too,  shall  one  day  go  mad  ?  " 

"  No,  poor  child,  most  emphatically,  I  do  not.  You 
must  not  permit  such  a  fancy  to  enter  your  mind.  As 
St.  Victor  said,  you  are  your  mother's  image  and  coun- 
terpart, in  temperament  and  mental  quality,  while  he, 
doubtless,  in  all  active  or  positive  elements  of  constitu- 
tion and  temperament,  was  his  father's  reflex.  Is  it  not 
true  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so.  My  dear  father  used,  I  know,  to  think 
St.  Victor  nearer  to  him  than  I  could  be.  When  togeth- 
er, they  looked  and  acted  very  much  alike.  Poor,  dear 
brother  ! "  and  again  the  tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks. 

The  doctor  was  deeply  moved;  this  grief  was  so  inex- 
pressibly deep  as  to  stir  in  his  heart  every  emotion  of 
tenderness  and  sympathy  it  was  possible  for  a  gentle- 
souled  man  to  feel. 

"  I  loved  him,"  he  said,  gently,  "  before  I  had  known 
him  an  hour.  His  nature  was  like  a  magnet,  to  draw 
love.  Alas  !  it  is  sad,  when  the  promise  of  such  a  life  is 
blighted.  I  would  have  given  my  life  for  his,  could  it 
have  averted  this  terrible  blow  from  this  house." 

A  radiant,  soul-full  look  dwelt  in  her  tear-dimmed  eyes. 
That  this  man  —  a  comparative  stranger  —  should  man- 
ifest this  interest  in  her  brother  aroused  all  the  gratitude 
and  affection  of  her  warm  nature. 


32  The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet. 

"  And  I  love  you,  Dr.  Graham,  for  loving  him,"  she 
said,  in  the  pathos  of  the  language  that  never  speaks  un- 
truthfully, —  the  pathos  of  irrepressible  feeling.  Then 
she  added:  "  Do  not  leave  us,  doctor.  You  are  all  the 
friend  we  have  here  in  this  great  city.  If  you  leave  us 
I  shall,  indeed,  be  alone." 

"  I  will  remain,  my  dear  child,  so  long  as  there  is  need 
of  my  services." 

He  did  not  tell  her,  in  so  many  words,  that  the  case 
was  hopeless;  but  her  eye  was  quick  to  see  the  wasting 
form  and  the  growing  prostration  which  followed  each 
paroxysm.  How  those  two  faithful  attendants  watched 
and  waited  for  the  end  I  And  in  the  grief  for  the  sis- 
ter, the  physician's  gentleness  found  that  road  to  a  mu- 
tual devotion,  which  is  sure  to  open  before  those  who  love 
and  wait  upon  a  common  object  of  affection.  The  doc- 
tor and  sister  became,  without  a  consciousness  of  their 
real  feeling,  mutually  dependent  and  trusting. 

In  less  than  a  month,  as  we  have  written,  the  skeleton 
which  came  to  the  feast  on  Christmas  night  departed 
from  the  house  to  abide  on  St.  Victor  Marchand's 
grave. 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  Institute,  Doctor  Graham 
gave  a  full  account  of  the  case,  remarking  upon  the  sin- 
gular feature  in  it  of  the  madness  assuming  an  embodi- 
ment in  the  sanity  of  another.  From  much  that  Edith 
told  him,  as  well  as  from  his  own  observation  and  knowl- 
edge, he  was  convinced  that,  for  months,  the  young  man 
had  detected  every  minute  symptom  and  development 


The  Skeleton  at  the  Banquet.          33 

of  his  disease  in  his  sister;  and  had  a  physician  been  at 
hand,  he  could  have  traced  the  insidious  progress  of  the 
malady  in  the  strength  of  the  brother's  suspicions  re- 
garding his  sister.  The  facts  cited  to  the  Institute 
touched  the  compassion  of  the  most  practice-hardened 
physician  when  Dr.  Graham  related  the  strange  and 
pitying  tenderness  with  which  young  Marchand  had 
watched  his  sister,  and  strove  to  divert  from  her  mind 
the  madness  which  tainted  his  blood  alone. 

"  Alone  in  this  great  city.  If  you  leave  me,  I  shall  be 
alone  indeed."  The  words  were  like  an  angel's  rap  upon 
the  heart's  door.  In  his  own  great  trouble,  —  the  loss 
of  his  wife,  —  the  physician  deemed  himself  afflicted  be- 
yond his  deserts;  but  what  was  his  condition  compared 
with  that  of  this  youthful,  tender,  dependent  woman, 
whose  loss  isolated  her  from  all  others  ? 

No,  not  all  others.  After  the  first  black  cloud  of 
her  sorrow  had  drifted  away,  she  turned  to  him,  whose 
hand  had  sustained  her,  even  when  prayer  had  left  her 
helpless  and  hopeless,  —  turned  to  him  with  a  love 
that  was  more  than  a  love,  with  an  adoration,  before 
which  the  physician  bent,  in  wonder  and  satisfaction. 
He  drew  her  to  his  bosom  as  something  to  be  kept  with 
all  the  truth  and  tenderness  of  an  abiding  love. 

The  dull  office  has  been  exchanged  for  a  home  that  is 
like  a  palace  of  dreams;  and  Edith  Graham,  never  for- 
getting her  great  sorrow,  yet  became  one  of  the  happiest 
of  all  who  ever  loved. 


(35) 


LET  THOSE  LAUGH  WHO  WIN. 


]B.  PONTIFEX  POMPADOUK  was  a  gentle- 
man whose  family  record  testified  to  his  having 
breathed  the  breath  of  life  sixty  years,  and  yet 
his  appearance  bore  witness  to  not  more  than 
forty.  Appearances,  however,  though  they  are 
deceitful,  result  from  causes  more  or  less  palpable;  and, 
in  this  case,  they  could  be  naturally  accounted  for. 
Ecce  testem  I 

Mr.  Pompadour's  complexion  was  clear  and  transpar- 
ent, —  but  it  was  not  his  own.  His  teeth  were  white 
and  regular,  —  but  they  were  artificial.  His  hair  was 
black  and  glossy,  —  but  it  was  dyed.  His  whiskers  were 
ibid.,  —  but  they  were  ditto.  His  dress  was.  the  perfec- 
tion of  fashion  and  taste,  though  rather  youthful;  and 
withal  he  carried  himself  with  a  jaunty  air,  and  a  light 
and  springing  step,  smiling  blandly  on  all  he  met,  as  if 
smiles  were  dollars  and  he  were  dispensing  them  right 
royally. 

He  had  an  only  son,  —  Augustus  Fitz  Clarence  Pompa- 
dour, —  who  was  heir-apparent  to  the  very  considerable 
4  (37) 


38  Let  those  Laugh  -who  Win. 

property  supposed  to  belong  to  the  "said  aforesaid." 
This  son  was  twenty-three,  and  had  graduated  at  college 
with  some  knowledge  of  some  things,  if  not  of  some 
others.  He  was  a  modern  Mithridates  in  his  power  to 
withstand  strychnine  and  nicotine;  and  he  had  devoted 
much  attention  to  that  branch  of  geometry  which  treats 
of  the  angles  of  balls  on  a  cushion.  One  beautiful  trait 
in  his  character,  however,  was  his  tender  affection  for 
his  father,  which  showed  itself  most  touchingly  —  when- 
ever he  was  in  need  of  money. 

In  person  he  was  prepossessing,  having  light-blue 
eyes,  dark-brown  hair,  and  a  drooping  moustache.  Nor 
will  I  allow  that  he  was  a  vicious  lad.  Indolent  and 
useless  he  certainly  was,  —  an  insignificant  numeral  in 
the  great  sum  of  humanity,  but  a  roue  he  certainly  was 
not.  The  worst  thing  about  him  was  his  name,  and 
that  he  received  from  a  weak,  silly  novel-reading  moth- 
er, who  gave  her  life  for  his,  and,  with  her  dying  breath, 
charged  his  father  to  pay  this  homage  to  the  yellow- 
covered  world  in  which  she  had  lived. 

If  there  was  anything  wanting  in  the  comfortable 
mansion,  where  the  Pompadours,  father  and  son,  kept 
bachelor's  hall,  it  was  the  refining  and  softening  influ- 
ence of  woman.  And  this  brings  us  to  the  consideration 
of  the  skeleton  which  abode  in  the  closets  of  Pompa- 
dour and  son. 

The  late  Mrs.  Pompadour  had  possessed  some  proper- 
ty which  she  had  retained  after  marriage.  Before  her 
death  she  made  a  will,  leaving  to  Augustus  the  fee,  and 


Let  those  Laugh  -who  Win.  39 

to  his  father  the  income  of  the  estate.  In  case,  how- 
ever, Augustus  should  marry  before  his  father  did,  he 
was  to  enter  into  full  possession  of  the  property.  Wives, 
in  dying,  do  not  generally  offer  their  husbands  a  premium 
for  replacing  them ;  and  so  the  judges  inferred  that  the 
real  meaning  of  the  testatrix  would  be  arrived  at  by  in- 
serting the  letter  e  in  the  word  "  did;  "  thus  making  the 
contingency  turn  upon  Augustus'  marrying  before  his 
father  died.  Moreover,  the  lawyer  who  drew  the  will 
(his  ancestor  was  limned  by  -^sop  in  the  fable  of  the 
Ass  in  the  lion's  skin)  swore  positively  to  this  render- 
ing being  in  accordance  with  the  wish  of  the  deceased, 
and  so  the  courts  decided  that  in  the  event  of  Mr.  Pom- 
padour's marrying  before  his  son,  he  should  retain  his 
interest  during  life. 

Now  Mr.  Pompadour,  aside  from  mercenary  motives, 
was  very  uxoriously  inclined ;  and  would  doubtless  have 
married  years  before,  had  he  not  sff  too  high  an  esti- 
mate on  himself. 

His  condition  of  mind  at  the  beginning  of  this  his- 
tory might  be  expressed  logically  somewhat  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

First,  he  must  get  married. 

Second,  Augustus  must  not. 

And  Augustus,  by  analogous  reasoning  on  identical 
premises,  mutatis  mutandis,  had  arrived  at  a  dual  con- 
clusion. 

First,  he  must  get  married. 

Second,  his  father  must  not. 


40  Let  those  Laugh  ivho    Win. 

A  vigorous  system  of  espionage  had  been  instituted 
by  father  and  son,  on  the  actions  of  each  other.  Skir- 
mishes had  been  frequent;  and  if  neither  gained  any  de- 
cided advantage,  neither  lost.  But  the  great  battle  of 
the  war  was  yet  to  be  fought,  and  it  has  been  reserved 
for  my  pen  to  inscribe  its  history. 

In  the  suburban  village  where  Mr.  Pompadour  resided 
was  a  handsome  residence;  and  its  owner,  "  about  visit- 
ing Europe,"  offered  it  for  rent.  The  house  was  elegant, 
and  the  grounds  especially  fine.  They  were  flanked  by 
two  shady  streets  and  fronted  on  a  third.  A  widow 
lady  with  one  daughter  became  the  tenant;  and,  as  is 
usual  in  such  cases,  the  whole  village  called  upon  her,  — 
three  persons  prompted  by  politeness,  and  three  hun- 
dred by  curiosity.  The  cards  which  did  duty  for  the 
lady  in  returning  these  calls,  announced  her  to  be  "  Mrs. 
Telluria  Taragon,  nee  Trelauney."  By  the  same  token 
her  daughter  was^iscovered  to  be  "  Miss  Terpsichore 
Taragon." 

Mrs.  Taragon  was  one  of  the  most  bewitching  of  wid- 
ows. About  forty  (she  acknowledged  to  thirty-three), 
she  was  the  very  incarnation  of  matronly  beauty.  She 
was  just  tall  enough  to  be  graceful,  and  just  plump 
enough  not  to  be  unwieldy.  Her  eyes  were  black  and 
dangerous.  Her  hair  was  short,  and  it  clustered  over 
her  forehead  in  little  ringlets,  —  rather  girlish,  but  very 
becoming.  Her  teeth  were  white  and  natural,  and  she 
had  a  most  fascinating  smile,  which  showed  her  teeth  in 
a  carefully  unstudied  manner,  formed  a  pretty  dimple 


Let  those  Laugh  -who  Win.  41 

in  her  chin,  and  enabled  her  to  look  archly  without 
apparent  intention. 

Her  daughter,  Miss  Terpsichore,  was  twenty,  with  a 
slender,  graceful  form,  and  a  pair  of  rosy  cheeks,  before 
whose  downy  softness  the  old  simile  of  the  peach  be- 
comes wholly  inadequate.  She  had  hazel  eyes,  whose 
liquid  depths  reflected  the  brightest  and  sunniest  of 
tempers,  and  dark  brown  hair,  with  just  a  suspicion 
of  golden  shimmer  filtering  through  its  wavy  folds. 

Mrs.  Taragon,  on  the  bare  charge,  could  not  have 
escaped  conviction  as  a  "designing  widow."  She  not 
only  was  on  the  lookout,  perpetually,  for  an  investment 
of  her  daughter,  but  she  was  flying  continually  from  her 
cap  a  white  flag  of  unconditional  surrender  to  the  first 
man  bold  enough  to  attack  herself. 

Mr.  Pontifex  Pompadour  "  availed  himself  of  an  early 
opportunity "  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Taragon.  His  fame 
had  preceded  him;  and  that  estimabte  lady,  who  was  in 
her  boudoir  when  he  was  announTOd,  gave  a  small 
shriek  of  dismay  at  her  dishevelled  appearance.  How- 
ever, no  one  need  be  alarmed  at  such  a  manifestation  on 
the  part  of  a  "  lady  of  fashion."  It  is  indicative  of  per- 
fect satisfaction  with  her  general  effect,  Mrs.  Taragon 
flew  to  her  mirror  to  shake  out  another  curl  —  and  her 
flounces ;  smiled  bewitchingly  by  way  of  rehearsal ;  bit 
her  lips  frantically  to  bring  the  blood  to  them,  and 
walked  aimlessly  about  the  room  for  a  few  moments 
with  her  hands  above  her  head,  to  send  the  blood  out  of 
them.  Then  picking  up  her  handkerchief  daintily,  and 
4* 


42  Let  those  Laugh  who  Win. 

going  downstairs  slowly,  that  her  cheeks  might  not  be 
too  much  flushed,  she  acquired  sudden  animation  at  the 
parlor-door,  and  burst  into  the  room  with  an  elaborate 
rustle,  and  a  thousand  apologies  for  having  kept  Mr. 
Pompadour  waiting  so  long,  —  and  wasn't  "  the  day  per- 
fectly lovely  ?  " 

If  a  conversation  be  interesting,  or  serve  in  any  way 
to  develop  the  plot  of  a  story,  I  hold  that  it  should  be 
given  at  full  length ;  but  the  polite  nothings  which  were 
repeated  at  this  interview,  came  under  neither  of  these 
heads.  They  served  only  to  display  Mr.  Pompadour's 
false  teeth,  and  Mrs.  Taragon's  real  ones  (and  the  dim- 
ple) through  the  medium  of  Mr.  P.'s  real  smile  and  Mrs. 
T.'s  false  one. 

The  two  parted  mutually  pleased,  and  Mrs.  Taragon 
said  to  herself,  as  she  resumed  the  novel  she  had  dropped 
at  Mr.  Pompadour's  entrance,  "  If  I  marry  him,  I  will 
have  that  set  of  sables,  and  those  diamonds  I  saw  at 
Tiffany's." 

Mr.  Pompadour  beheaded  a  moss  rose  with  his  cane, 
as  he  stepped  jauntily  down  the  walk,  and  remarked  to 
his  inner  self,  "  A  monstrous  fine  woman  that,  and  I 
may  say,  without  vanity,  that  she  was  struck  with  my 
appearance.  Why,  ho  I  who  the  devil's  that  ?  " 

The  acute  reader  will  perceive  a  slight  incoherence  in 
the  latter  portion  of  this  remark.  It  was  due  to  a  sight 
which  met  Mr.  Pompadour's  gaze  on  stepping  into  the 
street  from  Mrs.  Taragon's  domain.  This  was  nothing 
else  than  Augustus  Fitz  Clarence  walking  leisurely  up 


Let  those  Laugh  ivho  Win.  43 

the  street  with  a  young  lady  whom  we  know  —  but  the 
illustrious  parent  did  not  —  to  be  Miss  Terpsichore  Tar- 
agon. 

"  Confound  the  boy ! "  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  I 
wonder  who  he's  got  there  ?  Just  like  his  father, 
though  !  For  I  may  say,  without  vanity,  that  I  was  a 
tremendous  fellow  among  the  girls." 

Augustus  Fitz  Clarence  was  not  at  all  pleased  at  this 
chance  rencontre.  The  intimacy  with  the  charming 
widow,  which  it  strongly  hinted  at,  brought  vividly  to 
his  mind  its  possible  results  upon  his  own  prospects. 
And,  moreover,  he  was  conscious  of  a  peculiar  and  novel 
sensation  in  regard  to  the  young  lady,  which  made  him 
rather  shamefaced  under  the  paternal  eye.  In  short, 
he  was  in  love.  All  the  symptoms  were  apparent:  a 
rush  of  blood  to  the  face,  and  a  stammering  in  the 
speech,  whenever  proximity  to  the  infecting  object  in- 
duced a  spasm.  lie  also  had  the  secondary  symptoms,  — 
a  sensation  of  the  spinal  cord,  as  if  molasses  were  being 
poured  down  the  back,  and  a  general  feeling  i{  all  over," 
such  as  little  boys  call  "  goose-flesh,"  and  which  is  ordi- 
narily occasioned  by  a  ghost  story,  or  a  cold  draught 
from  an  open  doorway. 

To  the  writer,  who  stands  upon  the  high  level  of  the 
philosophic  historian,  it  is  evident  that  the  same  feelings 
warmed  the  gentle  breast  of  Terpsichore  that  burned  in 
the  bosom  of  Augustus.  To  furnish  food,  however,  for 
the  unextinguishable  laughter  of  the  gods,  this  fact  is 
never  made  clear  to  the  principals  themselves  till  the 


44  Lei  those  Laugh  u>ho  Win. 

last  moment.     "  And  so  from  hour  to  hour  we  ripe  and 
ripe  ....  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale." 

With  the  foregoing  paragraph,  I  bridge  over  an 
"  hiatus,  as  it  were,"  of  several  months. 

Respect  for  truth  obliges  me  to  record  the  fact,  that 
Mrs.  Taragon  regarded  her  daughter  with  that  unchris- 
tian feeling  called  jealousy.  But,  if  a  heartless,  she  was  a 
shrewd  woman,  and  she  meant  to  dispose  of  Terpsichore 
advantageously. 

There  was,  at  this  time,  and  I  believe  there  is  still,  in 
the  village  of  which  I  write,  an  "  order  of  the  garter," 
under  the  control  of  one  Mrs.  Grundy,  the  motto  of 
which  was:  "Those  are  evil  of  whom  we  evil  speak." 
Its  evening  meetings  were  familiarly  known  as  the 
"nights  of  the  sewing-circle; "  and  it  was  the  duty  of 
each  member  to  attend  to  everybody's  business  but  his 
own.  An  agent  of  this  order  promptly  put  Mrs.  Tara- 
gon in  possession  of  everything  which  had  been  discov- 
ered or  invented  concerning  Mr.  Pompadour,  not  forget- 
ting to  enlarge  upon  the  conditions  of  the  will.  Mrs. 
Taragon  thereupon  resolved  to  marry  Mr.  Pompadour; 
for,  in  addition  to  other  reasons,  she  confessed  to  herself 
that  she  really  liked  him.  As  may  be  supposed,  there- 
fore, she  looked  with  much  disfavor  on  the  increasing 
intimacy  between  the  young  people;  but  she  feared 
that  any  violent  attempt  to  rupture  it  would  precipi- 
tate the  very  result  she  would  avoid.  She  sat,  one  day, 
in  a  brown  study,  regarding  the  subject  in  all  its  bear- 


Let  those  Laugh  -who  Win.  45 

ings,  with  her  comely  cheek  resting  upon  her  plump 
hand,  and,  at  last,  arrived  at  a  conclusion. 

"  I  think  it  would  not  be  wise,"  she  said,  consulting 
the  mirror  to  see  if  her  hand  had  left  any  mark  upon 
her  cheek,  —  "to  interfere  just  at  present;  at  any  rate, 
not  till  I  am  sure  of  Mr.  Pompadour;  but  I  will  keep  a 
close  watch  upon  them." 

Not  many  days  afterwards,  a  picturesque  group  occu- 
pied the  bow-window  of  Mrs.  Taragon's  drawing-room. 
Mrs.  T.  herself,  quite  covered  with  an  eruption  of  wors- 
ted measles,  was  the  principal  figure.  At  her  feet,  like 
Paul  at  Gamaliel's,  sat  Augustus;  but,  unlike  Paul,  he 
held  a  skein  of  worsted.  Nestling  on  an  ottoman  in  the 
recess  of  the  window  was  Terpsichore,  inventing  floral 
phenomena  in  water-colors,  and  looking  very  bewitching. 

"  'Twas  a  fair  scene."  As  under  the  shade  of  some 
far-spreading  oak,  when  noon  holds  high  revel  in  the 
heavens,  the  gentle  flock  cluster  in  happy  security,  fear- 
ing no  dire  irruption  of  lupine  enemy,  so  — 

"  Mr.  Pompadour,"  announced  the  servant.- 

"  The  devil  ! "  echoed  Augustus  Fitz  Clarence. 

Mrs.  Taragon's  first  impulse  was  to  spring  up  and 
greet  her  visitor  cordially.  Her  second,  to  do  no  such 
thing.  Napoleon  said,  "  An  opportunity  lost  is  an  oc- 
casion for  misfortune."  Here  was  her  Austerlitz  or  her 
Waterloo  !  With  the  rapidity  of  genius,  she  laid  the 
plot  for  a  little  comedy  of  "  The  Jealous  Lovers,"  to  the 
success  of  which  the  actors  themselves  unwittingly  con- 
tributed. 


46  Let  those  Laiigh  who  Win. 

Half  rising,  she  acknowledged  Mr.  Pompadour's 
elaborate  bow,  and,  motioning  him  gracefully  to  a  seat, 
sank  back  into  her  chair.  Then,  pretending  that  the 
worsted  was  knotted,  she  bent  her  curls  so  near  Angus-, 
tus'  face,  and  made  a  whispered  remark  with  such  a 
conscious  air,  that  the  blood  rushed  to  that  young  man's 
face  in  an  instant. 

"  I  saw  you  out  riding  yesterday,  Mr.  Pompadour," 
said  the  cheerful  widow,  pleased  that  her  first  shot  had 
taken  effect.  "  And  what'  a  beautiful  horse  !  and  you 
ride  so  gracefully!" 

"Thank  you,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Pompadour,  stiffly; 
"  I  think  I  may  say,  without  vanity,  that  I  do  ride  tol- 
erably well/' 

"  And  you,"  to  the  son,  "  now  your  father  is  present, 
I  must  call  you  Mr.  Augustus,  —  may  I  not  ?  "  she  said, 
coaxingly.  The  "  Mr."  was  emphasized,  as  if  when 
alone  she  did  not  use  it.  But  this  was,  of  course,  unin- 
tentional. 

Now  Augustus,  for  some  time,  had  endeavored  to  in- 
gratiate himself  with  Mrs.  Taragon,  but  with  little 
success,  and,  therefore,  he  was  utterly  unable  to  com- 
prehend her  sudden  benignity.  He  glanced  at  his 
father,  and  met  the  eyes  of  that  individual  glaring  on 
him  with  the  look  of  an  ogre  deprived  of  his  baby  lunch. 
He  glanced  at  Terpsichore,  but  that  young  lady  was 
absorbed  with  a  new  discovery  in  botany.  He  glanced 
at  Mrs.  Taragon,  but  she  was  calmly  winding  worsted. 

"  Terpy,  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "  do  show  Mr.  Pom- 


Let  those  Laugh  -who  Win.  47 

padour  some  of  your  drawings.  My  dear  little  girl  is 
so  devoted  to  art ! "  she  exclaimed,  enthusiastically,  as 
the  daughter  rose  to  bring  her  portfolio.  "  Take  care, 
Mr.  Augustus;  you  know  worsted  is  a  dreadful  thing  to 
snarl."  Augustus  had  involuntarily  sprung  up  to  offer 
his  assistance,  but  he  sank  back  in  confusion. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  engravings?  Mr.  Pompadour  ? " 
asked  the  young  lady,  sweetly. 

"  Ah  I  yes  I  I — I  think  I  may  say  without  vanity,"  — 
began  Mr.  Pompadour,  but  he  finished  silently  to  him- 
self,— "  D —  me,  I'll  make  her  jealous  ! "  Whose  Auster- 
litz  or  Waterloo  should  it  be  ?  He  put  on  his  eye-glass 
to  inspect  the  volume,  and  for  a  little  while  almost  for- 
got his  egotism  in  admiration  of  the  beauty  of  nature 
beside  him,  if  not  of  the  beauties  of  art  before  him. 

Augustus  was  not  slow  in  perceiving  that,  for  some 
unknown  reason,  Mrs.  Taragon's  attention  was  gained, 
and  he  tried  desperately  to  improve  the  occasion.  Every 
once  in  a  while,  however,  his  eyes  would  wander  toward 
his  father,  who  played  his  part  with  so  much  skill  that 
the  bosom  of  Augustus  was  soon  filled  with  burnings, 
and  the  mind  of  the  widow  with  perplexities.  The  gen- 
tle heart  of  Terpsichore  was  grieved  also,  and  her  mind 
sorely  puzzled  at  the  enigmatical  conduct  of  those  about 
her,  while  she  was  somewhat  annoyed  at  the  pertina- 
cious attentions  of  the  elder  P. 

The  distinguished  gentleman  who  wrote  so  graphically 
about  the  "  Elbows  of  the  Mincio,"  must  confess  that 
our  Quadrilateral  is  only  second  to  that  which  he  has 


48  Let  those  Laugh  -who  Win. 

helped  to  embalm  in  history.  The  Irishman's  experience 
with  the  large  boot  and  the  small  one,  and  the  other  pair 
similarly  mismated,  was  here  reproduced  with  painful 
reality.  Some  evil  genius  had  scattered  wormwood  on 
the  air,  and  asphyxia,  or  something  worse,  seemed  likely 
to  supervene,  when  the  entrance  of  another  visitor  broke 
the  charm,  and  the  tete-a-tete,  and  the  gentlemen  fled. 

The  thermometer  of  Mr.  Pompadour's  temper  indi- 
cated boiling  heat.  lie  sputtered  and  fumed  like  an 
irascible  old  gentleman  as  he  was,  and  managed  to  work 
himself  into  a  crazy  fit  of  jealousy,  about  his  son  and 
the  too  fascinating  widow  ;  and,  oddly  enough,  this  feel- 
ing thus  aroused  by  the  green-eyed  monster,  for  the 
time  being,  quite  eclipsed  his  mercenary  muddle.  So, 
upon  poor  Augustus,  as  the  available  subject,  fell  palpa- 
ble and  uncomfortable  demonstrations  of  paternal  dis- 
pleasure. 

For  several  days  Mr.  Pompadour  stayed  away  from 
Mrs.  Taragon's,  and  that  good  lady  began  to  fear  lest 
she  had  overdrawn  her  account  at  the  bank  of  his  heart, 
and  that  further  drafts  would  be  dishonored.  The 
thought  of  such  a  catastrophe  was  torture  of  the  most 
refined  quality.  By  an  illogical  system  of  reasoning, 
peculiar  to  the  female  mind,  she  imagined  that  Terpsi- 
chore was  the  cause  of  his  desertion,  and  that  young 
lady  thereupon  became  the  recipient  of  an  amount  of 
small  spite  and  aggravated  vindictiveness,  which  re- 
flected great  credit  upon  Mrs.  Taragon's  inquisitorial 
capabilities. 


Let  those  Laugh  ivho  Win.  49 

She  had,  it  must  be  obvious,  set  her  heart  upon  having 
those  diamonds  from  Tiffany's.  . 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  however,  Mr.  Pompadour  called 
upon  Mrs.  Taragon,  and  this  time  he  found  her  alone. 
His  countenance  gave  proof  of  some  desperate  resolu- 
tion. His  attire  was  more  than  usually  elegant.  His 
hair  and  whiskers  were  a  trifle  blacker  and  glossier  than 
ever.  He  had  a  rose  in  his  button-hole,  and  yellow  kids 
on  his  hands.  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory,  was  not  arrayed 
(I  sincerely  trust )  like  unto  him  I  Mrs.  Taragon  rose 
cordially,  and  held  out  to  him  her  plump  little  hand;  it 
lay  a  moment  in  his,  as  if  asking  to  be  squeezed.  Mr. 
Pompadour  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  squeeze  it,  and 
perhaps  he  did. 

The  lady's  cordiality  soon  gave  place  to  a  timid  shy- 
ness. To  use  a  military  phrase,  she  was  "  feigning  a  re- 
treat." Mr.  Pompadour  waxed  bold  and  advanced. 
The  conversation  skirmished  awhile,  the  widow  occasion- 
ally making  a  sally,  and  driving  in  the  enemy's  outposts, 
his  main  body  meanwhile  steadily  approaching.  The 
tone  in  which  they  conducted  hostilities,  however,  grad- 
ually fell,  and  if  one  had  been  near  enough  he  might  have 
heard  Mr.  Pompadour  remark,  with  a  kind  of  quiet  sat- 
isfaction, "  For  I  think  1  may  say,  without  vanity,  I 
still  possess  some  claim  to  good  looks."  The  widow's 
reply  was  so  low  that  our  reporter  failed  to  catch  it,  and 
then  —  military  phraseology  avaunt !  —  the  old  veteran 
knelt  on  the  carpet,  and  surrendered  at  discretion. 

"  Good  gracious,  Mr.  Pompadour !  "  exclaimed  the 
5 


50  Let  those  Laugh  -who  Win. 

widow,  with  well-feigned  alarm,  at  the  same  time  picking 
a  thread  off  her  dress,  "  Do  get  up,  somebody  may  come 
in  I" 

"  Never  !  "  said  the  old  hero  stoutly,  seeing  his  advan- 
tage, and  determined  to  have  its  full  benefit,  "  at  any 
rate,  not  till  you  promise  to  marry  me  !  " 

A  form  passed  the  window.  This  time  Mrs.  Taragon 
was  really  frightened.  "I  will,"  she  said  hurriedly; 
"  now  get  up,  and  sit  down." 

Mr.  Pompadour  leaped  to  his  feet  with  the  agility  of  a 
boy  —  of  sixty,  and  imprinted  a  kiss  lovingly  upon  the 
lady's  nose,  there  not  being  time  to  capture  the  right 
place  on  the  first  assault.  What  followed  we  will  leave- 
to  the  imagination  of  the  reader. 

It  was  now  October,  and  the  trees  had  adorned  them- 
selves in  their  myriad  dyes.  The  maple  had  put  on 
crimson,  the  hickory  a  rich  gold,  and  the  oak  a  deep 
scarlet  ;  while  the  pine  and  the  hemlock  "  mingled  with 
brighter  tints  the  living  green." 

To  the  woods  one  balmy  day  Augustus  and  Terpsi- 
chore went  together,  to  gather  leaves  for  wreaths  and 
screens.  Both  were  carelessly  happy,  and  the  pines 
echoed  their  merry  voices  as  they  laughed  and  sang. 
At  length  the  basket,  which  Augustus  carried,  was  filled 
with  gorgeous  booty,  and  they  sat  down  upon  a  fallen 
log,  while  Terpsichore  wove  a  garland  for  her  hair.  No 
wonder  that  in  the  tranquil  beauty  of  the  scene  their 
noisy  mirth  should  become  hushed.  No  wonder  that, 


Let  those  Laugh  -who  Win.  51 

as  the  sun  stole  through  the  branches,  and  like  Jove 
of  old  fell  in  a  shower  of  gold  about  them,  upon  both 
their  hearts  fell  the  perfect  peace  of  love  !  With  the 
full  tide  of  this  feeling  caine  to  Augustus  the  resolve 
to  know  his  fate;  for  he  felt  that  upon  that  answer 
hung  his  destiny. 

They  sat  in  silence  while  he  tried  to  teach  his  tongue 
the  language  of  his  heart.  Then  he  glanced  timidly  at 
the  maiden,  but  her  head  was  drooped  low  over  the 
wreath,  and  her  cheeks  reflected  its  crimson  dye. 

"  Miss  Taragon,"  he  said,  at  length,  abruptly,  "  were 
you  ever  in  love  ?  " 

She  started  like  a  frightened  bird.  The  rich  blood 
lied  to  her  heart,  and  left  her  face  pallid  as  marble. 

"I  —  I  —  don't  know,"  she  stammered.  '•  Why  do  you 
ask  me  such  a  question  ?  " 

"  Because,"  he  said,  "  then  you  may  know  how  I  feel, 
and  pity  me  !  O  Terpsichore  I  "  he  added  passionately, 
"  I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul,  and  if  you  will  but 
bless  me  with  your  love,  my  whole  life  shall  be  devoted 
to  your  happiness." 

And  so  he  talked  on  in  an  impetuous  strain,  of  min- 
gled prayer  and  protestation,  which  was  stereotyped 
long  before  the  invention  of  printing. 

Terpsichore's  heart  beat  wildly.  The  color  came  and 
went  in  her  cheeks,  and  she  turned  her  head  away  to 
conceal  her  emotion. 

The  wreath  lay  finished  in  her  lap;  and  at  last,  with 
a  bright  smile,  she  placed  it  on  his  forehead;  and,  clasp- 


52  Let  those  Laugh  who  Win. 

ing  his  hand  in  both  her  own,  she  kissed  him  on  the  fore- 
head. And  now  we  might  as  well  leave  them  alone 
together. 

Mrs.  Taragon,  having  made  sure  of  Mr.  Pompadour, 
now  proceeded  to  carry  out  her  plan  of  throwing  obsta- 
cles in  the  way  of  the  young  people.  Augustus,  of 
course,  was  not  aware  of  her  complete  information  in 
regard  to  his  "property  qualifications,"  and  attributed 
her  disfavor  to  personal  dislike.  Whatever  her  motives, 
however,  her  actions  were  unequivocal ;  and  Terpsichore, 
especially,  had  a  sorry  time  of  it.  So  uncomfortable  did 
matters  become,  that,  upon  a  review  of  the  situation,  and 
an  eloquent  appeal  from  Augustus,  she  consented  to  take 
with  him  that  irrevocable  step,  to  which  Virgil  undoubt- 
edly alluded  under  the  fine  figure  of  "Dcscensus  Averni." 
In  plain  English,  they  resolved  to  run  away  and  be 
married. 

I  will  not  weary  the  reader  with  details  of  the  prelim- 
inaries. They  are  unimportant  to  my  narrative.  A 
note,  dispatched  by  Augustus  to  the  Rev.  Ebenezer  Fis- 
cuel,  informed  that  gentleman  that  about  half-past  ten 
o'clock  of  an  appointed  evening  he  would  be  waited  on  by 
a  couple  desirous  of  being  united  in  holy  matrimony. 

Augustus  arranged  to  have  a  carriage  in  waiting  un- 
der Terpsichore's  window  about  ten  o'clock,  and,"  with 
the  aid  of  a  ladder  and  the  above-mentioned  clergyman, 
he  hoped  to  settle  the  vexed  question  of  the  property, 
and  render  all  further  opposition  to  their  union  of  an 
ex  post  facto  character. 


Let  those  Laugh  who  Win.  53 

The  evening  came,  and  it  found  Mrs.  Taragon  and  her 
daughter  seated  together  in  the  parlor.  Terpsichore  was 
crocheting  a  net,  which,  like  Penelope's,  grew  very 
slowly.  She  was  nervous  and  fidgety.  Her  eyes  wan- 
dered restlessly  from  her  mother  to  the  door,  and  she 
started  at  the  slightest  sound.  Mrs.  Taragon  seemed 
uncommonly  suspicious  and  alert.  She  was  reading,  but 
had  not  turned  a  leaf  for  half  an  hour.  She  glanced  fur- 
tively and  continually  about  the  room. 

"She  has  found  us  out,"  thought  Terpsichore,  and 
her  heart  almost  stopped  beating.  With  a  great  effort 
she  controlled  herself,  and  had  recourse  to  stratagem. 

"  Mother,  dear,"  she  said,  dropping  the  net  in  her  lap, 
"  you  look  tired ;  why  don't  you  go  to  bed  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  darling,"  said  the  widow,  cheerfully,  "  I  don't 
feel  a  bit  weary.  But  your  eyes  look  red,  and  I  think 
you  had  better  retire." 

"  !N"o,  mamma,  not  yet,"  she  replied.  "  I  want  to  fin- 
ish this  net.  I  have  done  so  little  upon  it  lately." 

A  slight  shade  of  vexation  crossed  the  face  of  the 
widow. 

"  If  you  had  devoted  yourself  to  the  net,"  she  said, 
spitefully,  "  it  would  have  been  finished." 

Terpsichore  blushed  guiltily.  Augustus  had  spent 
more  than  two  hours  with  her  that  day;  and  she  felt  a 
presentiment  that  impending  wrath  was  about  to  de- 
scend on  her  devoted  head. 

"I  am  sure,  mother,"  she  said,  quietly,  "</ou  cant 
complain  of  my  seeing  too  much  company." 
5* 


54  Let  those  Laugh  who  Win. 

This  shot  told;  for  Mr.  Pompadour  had  been  very 
attentive  of  late. 

Mrs.  Taragon  nearly  tore  a  leaf  out  of  her  book. 

"  At  any  rate,"  she  retorted,  "  my  visitors  are  respect- 
able." 

Terpsichore's  lip  quivered.  The  remark  was  cruel, 
but  it  roused  her  spirit. 

"  If  my  company  is  not  respectable,"  she  said,  with 
an  incipient  sob,  "  it  is  the  fault  of  his  bringing  up." 

Mr.  Pompadour  was  hit  this  time,  right  between  his 
eyes.  The  widow  blazed. 

"  You  —  you  —  you  minx,"  she  said,  angrily,  "  I  be- 
lieve you'd  like  to  see  me  dead,  and  out  of  your 
way  ! " 

The  remark  was  utterly  irrelevant;  but  she  saw  it  in 
the  book,  and  thought  it  would  be  dramatic. 

Terpsichore  burst  into  tears,  and  beat  a  retreat  in  dis- 
order. As  she  left  the  room,  Mrs.  Taragon  said  to  her- 
self, with  a  sigh  of  relief,  — 

"  Well,  the  coast  is  clear  for  Pompadour,  —  and  she's 
safe  for  to-night,  any  way." 

Which  was  a  slight  mistake. 

"  Ten  o'clock  came,  and  with  it  the  carriage^  A  man 
glided  silently  underneath  Terpsichore's  window,  and 
a  ladder  was  reared  against  the  wall.  Silently  the 
window  opened,  and  a  form  descended  the  ladder,  and 
was  clasped  in  an  equally  silent  embrace  at  the  foot. 
Terpsichore  had  not  entirely  recovered  her  spirits,  but 
she  stifled  her  emotions  for  the  sake  of  Augustus.  For 


Let  those  Laugh  who  Win.  55 

the  same  reason  she  did  not  scold  him  for  rumpling  her 
bonnet.  Hurrying  into  the  carriage,  they  drove  rapidly 
away. 

As  they  turned  the  corner  into  the  principal  street, 
another  carriage,  going  in  the  same  direction,  came  up 
behind  them  at  a  quick  trot  Augustus  sprang  to  his 
feet,  and  peered  out  into  the  darkness.  "  Betrayed," 
was  the  thought  which  flashed  through  his  mind,  and 
he  muttered  an  eighteen-cornered  oath.  Terpsichore 
clung  to  his  coat  with  an  energy  which  indirectly  re- 
flected lasting  credit  upon  his  tailor. 

"  Put  on  more  steam,"  whispered  Augustus  hoarsely 
to  the  driver,  and  the  horses  dashed  onward  at  a  break- 
neck pace,  soon  leaving  the  other  carriage  far  behind. 

At  the  rate  they  were  going,  it  took  but  a  few  min- 
utes to  reach  the  parsonage.  Directing  the  coachman 
to  drive  round  the  corner  and  wait,  Augustus  half-led, 
half-carried  the  trembling  girl  into  the  house.  The 
Rev.  Fiscuel's  family  and  one  or  two  neighbors  were 
assembled  in  the  parlor.  The  ceremony  was  soon  per- 
formed, and  an  earnest  blessing  invoked  upon  the  mar- 
ried life  of  the  young  people.  As  they  were  receiving 
the  congratulations  suited  to  the  occasion,  a  juvenile 
Fiscuel  came  in,  and  whispered  something  to  his  father. 
Mr.  Fiscuel,  with  a  smile,  turned  to  Augustus,  saying, 
"  My  son  tells  me  that  your  father  is  coming  in  at  the 
gate  with  a  lady." 

The  newly-married  looked  at  each  other  in  mute 
surprise.  "  I'll  bet  a  hat,"  exclaimed  Augustus,  sud- 


56  Let  those  Laugh  who  Win. 

denly,  "it's  your  mother;  and  they've  come  to  get 
married  I  " 

The  Rev.  Ebenezer  spoke  eagerly:  "  Did  you  send  me 
two  messages  this  morning  V  " 

"  No!  "  said  Augustus;  "  of  course  I  did  not." 

"  Then  they  have,  verily,"  exclaimed  the  clergyman, 
in  a  tone  of  very  unclerical  excitement ;  "  for  I  received 
two  messages  from  '  Mr.  Pompadour.'  I  spoke  of  the 
singularity  at  the  time." 

"  Can  you  hide  us  somewhere  ?  "  said  Augustus,  "  till 
you've  '  done  '  the  old  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Come  in  here,"  said  Mrs.  Fiscuel,  who  had  her 
share  of  that  leaven  of  unrighteousness  which  is  usually 
called  fun.  As  she  spoke,  she  opened  the  drawing- 
room  door. 

The  Rev.  Ebenezer  sat  down  to  write  a  certificate  for 
Augustus;  and,  as  one  door  closed  upon  the  young 
couple,  the  other  opened  to  admit  the  older  one.  If  not 
in  as  great  a  hurry  as  their  children,  they  seemed 
equally  desirous  of  making  assurance  doubly  sure.  The 
family  and  the  witnesses,  who  had  followed  Mrs.  Fiscuel 
out  of  the  apartment,  were  again  summoned,  and,  for  a 
second  time  that  evening,  the  words  were  spoken  which 
made  a  Pompadour  and  a  Taragon  "  one  bone  and  one 
flesh."  Watching  the  proceedings  through  the  crevice 
of  the  half-opened  door,  was  a  couple  not  counted 
among  the  "  witnesses,"  and  certainly  not  invited  by  the 
principals. 

"When  the  ceremony  was  over,  Augustus  and  Terpsi- 


Let  those  Laugh  who  Win.  57 

chore  entered  the  room.  Their  appearance  created 
what  "  Jenkins "  would  call  "  a  profound  sensation." 
Mr.  Pompadour  looked  bowie-knives  and  six-shooters. 
Mrs.  P.,  darning-needles  and  stilettoes.  Augustus  was 
self-possessed.  Perhaps  he  remembered  the  old  saying, 
"  Let  those  laugh  who  win." 

"  "We  happened  here  not  knowing  you  were  coming," 
he  said,  addressing  both;  "wont  you  accept  our  con- 
gratulations." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Pompadour  nee  Trelawney,  gave  a 
scream,  and  fell  back  in  a  chair,  with  symptoms  of 
hysterics.  She  had  caught  sight  of  the  ring  on  her 
daughter's  finger,  and  comprehended  everything  in 
an  instant,  —  the  carriage  which  had  fled  before  them 
as  they  left  the  house;  this  "accidental"  visit  to  the 
minister's;  and,  worse  than  all,  how  she  had  been  out- 
witted I 

Terpsichore  sprang  forward  to  assist  her. 

"  Go  away  from  me  I  Go  away  I  Don't  let  her  touch 
me!  "  she  screamed,  throwing  her  arms  about  like  a 
wind-mill.  "  1  wont  have  it !  I  wont  I  I  wont  1 " 

Mr.  Pompadour,  during  this  outburst,  showed  signs 
of  exasperation;  apparently,  however,  he  did  not  see 
the  point,  but  was  fast  concluding  that  he  had  married  a 
lunatic. 

Terpsichore  was  frightened  and  began  to  cry.  Au- 
gustus, to  reassure  her,  put  his  arm  around  her  waist.  At 
this,  the  senior  Mrs.  Pompadour  sprang  up,  and  seized 
her  husband  by  the  arm,  so  energetically  that  it  made 


58  Let  those  Laugh  who  Win. 

him  wince.  Pointing  to  the  tell-tale  ring  with  a  gesture 
worthy  of  Kistori,  she  managed  to  articulate:  "Don't 
you  see  it  ?  That  undutiful  girl  has  married  Augustus, 
and  —  and  he  has  married  her  I 

Mr.  Pompadour  "  saw  it,"  and  uttered  some  words 
which  were  not  a  blessing. 


THE  PROPER  USE  OF  GRANDFATHERS. 


THE  PROPER  USE  OF  GRANDFATHERS, 


F  people  without  grandfathers  are  in  need  of 
any  particular  solace,  they  may  find  it  in  the 
fact  that  those  cumbrous  contingencies  of  ex- 
istence cannot  be  continually  stuck  in  their 
faces.  A  wise  man  has  remarked,  that  the  moderns 
are  pigmies  standing  upon  the  shoulders  of  giants. 
He  would  have  been  wiser  still,  had  he  observed  how 
frequently  the  giants  change  places  with  the  pigmies, 
and  ride  them  to  death  like  Old  Men  of  the  Sea.  If, 
at  sixteen,  I  have  the  dyspepsia  and  a  tendency  to 
reflect  on  the  problems  of  my  being,  I  am  begged  to 
notice  that,  at  a  corresponding  period  old  Jones,  of  the  al- 
ternate generation,  was  gambolling  o'er  the  dewy  meads, 
a  gleesome  boy.  If  my  baby  cries  and  is  puny  at  teeth- 
ing-time, the  oracles,  with  an  intuitive  perception  how 
my  grandfather  behaved  a  hundred  years  before  they 
were  born,  tell  me  it  was  not  so  in  his  day;  that  heaven 
lay  about  him  in  his  infancy;  but  that  none  of  the  arti- 
cle exists  either  in  that  loose  condition  or  otherwise  for 
6  (59) 


60        The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers. 

the  immature  human  animal  who  breaks  out  of  darkness 
and  mystery  into  this  day  of  gum-rings.  If  the  tre- 
mendous pace  at  which  the  modern  world  is  going 
knocks  me  up  at  forty,  and  compels  me  to  keep  my  stall 
for  a  year  ot  valetudinarianism,  I  am  asked  to  remem- 
ber what  a  hale  old  fellow  the  same  inevitable  ancestor 
was  at  ninety;  I  am  inundated  with  his  exuberance  of 
spirits,  overwhelmed  with  the  statistics  of  his  teeth;  and 
invited  in  the  mind's  eye  (in  my  own,  too,  if  I  know 
myself !)  to  take  six-mile  walks  with  him  before  break- 
fast unassisted  by  a  cane.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  state  of 
mind  to  be  disgusted  with  one's  forefathers,  who  would, 
probably,  have  been  very  jolly  fellows  to  know,  and  not 
the  least  in  the  world  like  the  people  who  are  all  the 
time  boring  us  about  them.  If  there  is  truth  in  spirit- 
ualism, a  delegation  from  those  fine  old  boys  will,  some 
of  these  days,  take  advantage  of  a  sitting,  and  rap  out  an 
indignant  disclaimer  of  the  bosh  that  is  talked  in  their 
name.  If  my  grandfather  was  not  a  much  more  un- 
pleasant person  than  myself,  he  would  scorn  to  be  made 
a  boguey  of  for  the  annoyance  of  his  own  flesh  and 
blood.  Any  man  of  well-regulated  mind  must  prefer 
utter  oblivion  among  his  descendants  to  such  perpetua- 
tion as  that  of  Mr.  Wilfer. 

"Your  grandpapa,"  retorted  Mrs.  Wilfer,  with  an 
awful  look,  and  in  an  awful  tone,  "  was  what  I  describe 
him  to  have  been,  and  would  have  struck  any  of  his 
grandchildren  to  the  earth  who  presumed  to  question 
it." 


The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers.       61 

If  our  ancestors  could  return  to  the  earth,  it  is  little 
likely  that  their  first  inclination  would  be  to  goody  them- 
selves over  the  excellence  of  their  own  period,  or  pull 
faces  at  the  degeneracy  of  ours.  Sleepers  in  ill-venti- 
lated, or  rather  entirely  non-ventilated  apartments,  eat- 
ers of  inordinate  late  suppers,  five-bottle  men,  and  for 
the  most  part  wearers  of  sadly  unphilosophical  raiment, 
those  sturdy  old  fox-hunters  would  acknowledge  it  just 
cause  for  astonishment  that  their  children  have  any  con- 
stitutions at  all.  Little  motive  for  self-laudation  would 
they  find  in  the  fact,  that,  after  drawing  out  their  ac- 
count with  Nature  to  the  last  dime,  they  had  taken  a 
respectable  first-cabin  passage  to  the  Infinite  Boulogne 
just  before  the  great  Teller  said  "No  funds,"  and 
shoved  back  their  checks  through  the  window,  leaving 
to  their  children  the  heritage  of  a  spotless  name  and  the 
declaration  of  physiological  bankruptcy. 

Nor  would  they  content  themselves,  I  fancy,  with 
the  negative  ground  of  mere  humility.  They  would 
have  something  very  decided  to  say  to  the  wiseacres, 
who  taunt  our  wives  in  the  agony  of  tic-doloureux  with 
the  statement  that  their  grandmothers  knew  nothing  of 
neuralgia.  "  No  ! "  these  generous  ancients  would  re- 
tort, "  that  is  the  residuary  legacy  of  a  generation  to 
whom  we  left  a  nervous  system  of  worn-out  fiddle 
strings."  To  such  as  talk  of  that  woful  novelty  diph- 
theria as  a  crime  of  the  present  age,,  they  would  point 
out  the  impossibility  of  a  race's  throat  descending  to  it 
without  tenderness,  a  race's  blood  flowing  to  it  without 


62        The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers. 

taint,  from  ancestors  who  swaddled  their  necks  in  fath- 
oms of  cravat,  and  despised  the  question  of  sewage. 
When  I  had  the  gout,  and  could  not  stand  up  for  myself, 
those  brave  vieilles  moustaches  would  stand  up  for  me. 
"  Many  a  fine  old  bin  of  our  port,"  would  they  exclaim, 
"  has  been  emptied  down  through  the  seons  into  those 
innocent  toes  of  thine.  I  mind  me  how  I  smacked  my 
lips  over  that  very  bottle  whose  broken  glass  now  grinds 
around,  red-hot,  in  the  articulation  of  thy  metatarsal  pha- 
langes. Dancing  at  thy  fair  great-grandmother's  wed- 
ding, I  slaked  the  thirst  of  many  vigorous  sarabands  in 
that  identical  ruby  nectar,  which,  turned  by  the  alchemy 
of  generations  into  acid  blood,  now  through  thy  great 
toe  distils  in  gouts  of  fiery  torture.  I  danced ;  —  thou, 
poor  Sero-natus,  dancest  not,  but  dost  pay  the  piper." 

Suppose  that  our  returning  ancestors  regarded  us  in 
the  intellectual  and  spiritual,  as  well  as  the  physical 
aspect,  they  must  find  still  less  reason  to  put  on  airs  of 
superiority.  If,  in  the  sphere  where  they  have  been 
lately  moving,  improvement  goes  on  as  fast  as  we  be- 
lieve, they  may  be  expected  to  wonder  that  the  theolog- 
ical and  scholastic  training  of  their  own  earthly  day  has 
not  resulted  in  a  present  race  of  imbeciles  and  fetish- 
worshippers,  or  Torquemadas  and  madmen.  With 
thankful  astonishment  will  they  revere  that  nature  whose 
boundless  elasticity  and  self-repair  has  brought  bright 
and  self-reliant,  even  though  sometimes  a  trifle  too  pert 
and  iconoclastic,  Young  America  from  loins  burdened, 
through  all  their  period  of  cartilage,  with  five  days  and 


The  Proper  use  of  Grandfather.        63 

a  half  per  week  of  grammar-grinding,  a  Saturday  after- 
noon of  "keeping  in  for  marks,"  and  a  seventh  day 
which  should  have  been  the  Lord's,  but  was  conspic- 
uously liker  the  devil's. 

Woman,  religion,  and  the  forefathers  are  all  the  vic- 
tims of  a  false  quality  of  reverence.  The  world  has  im- 
memorially  paid  them  in  the  coin  of  lip-service  for  the 
privilege  of  using  their  sacredness  as  a  yoke.  They  are 
defrauded  of  their  true  power  by  the  hands  that  waft 
them  hypocritical  incense;  bought  off  the  ground  where 
their  influence  might  be  precious  and  permanent,  by  the 
compliment  of  a  moment,  or  the  ceremony  of  a  day. 
We  pick  up  the  fan  of  the  first,  and  shoulder  her  out  of 
her  partnership  in  our  serious  business  of  living.  We 
build  temples  for  the  second,  that  she  may  not  gad 
about  among  our  shops,  or  trouble  the  doors  of  our 
houses.  In  the  third,  we  do  superstitious  homage  to  a 
mere  accident  of  time,  and  feel  free  to  neglect  the  genial 
lesson  of  humanity  which  is  eternal. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  reverence  our  forefathers  — 
those  grand  old  fellows  who,  long  before  we  rose,  got 
up  to  build  the  fires,  and  shovel  the  sidewalks  of  this 
world.  The  amount  of  work  which  they  did  was  im- 
mense; great  was  their  poking  and  their  pushing;  their 
thrashing  of  arms,  and  their  blowing  of  fingers.  If  they 
sometimes  made  a  compromise  with  their  job;  if  here 
and  there  they  left  the  gutters  uncleared,  or  a  heavy 
drift  to  thaw  over  under  the  sun  of  modern  conscience, 
and  flood  our  streets  with  revolution;  if  they  built  some 
6* 


64        The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers. 

of  their  fires  with  wet  wood,  which  unto  this  day  smokes 
the  parlors,  or  even  the  inmost  bed-chambers  of  man- 
kind, —  let  us  remember  how  frosty  the  dawn  was,  how 
poorly  made  were  the  tools  and  mittens  of  the  period. 
All  honor  to  their  work,  and  the  will  with  which  they 
went  at  it  I  But  when  we  are  asked  to  regret  the  rising 
of  the  sun;  to  despise  a  time  of  day  when  there  are  no 
more  fires  to  build,  no  more  walks  to  shovel ;  or,  if  such 
anywhere  remain,  when  there  are  snow-ploughs  and 
patent-kindling  to  use  in  their  behoof —  distinctly  No  ! 

—  a  Ko  as  everlasting  as  Mr.  Carlyle's,  and  spelt  with 
as  big  a  capital. 

The  mistake  of  that  great  writer  and  minor  disciple 
of  the  Belated-Owl  school  to  which  he  belongs,  nat- 
urally arises,  not  from  the  over-development  of  rever- 
ence, to  which  it  is  generally  ascribed,  but  from  a  con- 
stitutional divorce  between  the  poetic  imagination  and 
the  power  of  analysis.  The  former  faculty,  by  itself, 
results  in  impatience  with  the  meaner  actualities  of  life, 

—  a  divine  impatience  in  great  poets,  a  petulant  in  small 
ones.    Lacking  the  latter  faculty,  such  persons  are  in  the 
condition  of  a  near-sighted  man  placed  without  chart  or 
compass  at  the  helm  of  a  free-going  clipper.    Making 
no  allowance  for  the  fact  that  the  blemished  and  the 
trivial  disappear  with  distance,  and,  ignorant  of  the  di- 
rection in  which  humanity  must  steer,  they  put  out  with 
disgust  from  a  shore  where  every  old  clam-shell  and 
rotten  wreck  is  as  conspicuous  to  those,  at  least,  who 
look  for  it  as  the  orange-groved  cliffs,  and  the  fair  retir- 


The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers.       65 

ing  stretches  of  greensward,  to  voyage  for  some  scarce 
descried  Atlantis  gemming  the  horizon  ring  with  an 
empurpled  roundness  born  of  vapor,  time,  and  space. 
To  such,  the  future  might  be  a  noble  course  to  lay;  but 
that  lies  beyond  the  horizon,  and  impatience  is  not  con- 
sistent with  faith.  On,  then,  on  to  the  farthest  visible,  — 
but  westward,  while  the  grand  fleet  of  humanity  sails 
last.  Into  shadow  which  drowns  the  petty  details  of 
existence,  —  not  toward  a  shore  which  shall  be  reached 
only  by  long  buffeting  and  weary  watching,  whose  noble 
scenery,  glorious  w^th  all  the  temples  and  trophies  of 
the  latest  age,  shall  bear  unshamed  the  scrutiny  of  the 
full-risen  sun. 

The  application  of  scientific  processes  to  the  study  of 
history  has  revealed  the  steady  amelioration  of  the  race. 
The  mail  of  chivalric  giants  is  brought  out  of  romance's 
armory  to  the  profane  test  of  a  vulgar  trying  on,  and, 
behold,  it  is  too  small  for  the  foot-soldier  of  to-day. 
Population  everywhere  increases,  while  the  rates  of 
mortality  diminish.  The  average  longevity  of  the  peo- 
ple of  London  is  greater,  by  something  like  twenty-five 
per  cent,  than  it  was  a  century  ago.  The  improvement 
of  machinery  is  more  and  more  lifting  the  yoke  of  phys- 
ical labor  from  the  neck  of  man,  leaving  his  mind  freer 
to  cope  with  the  higher  problems  of  his  own  nature  and 
the  universe  without.  Not  as  a  matter  of  platform  en- 
thusiasm and  optimist  poetry,  but  of  office  statistics,  do 
we  know  that  the  world  is  an  easier  and  better  place 
to  live  in,  and  that  a  man  is  luckier  to  be  born  into  it, 


66        The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers. 

than  in  the  day  of  the  fathers.  So  much  has  changed, 
and  changed  for  the  better.  That  analysis,  which  the 
Carlylists  lack,  reveals  still  other  changes  worked  by 
the  course  of  time  in  the  phenomena  of  the  race, — 
such  changes  as  concern  the  habits  of  society,  the  styles 
of  literature,  the  systems  of  political  economy  and  com- 
mercial order,  the  tenets  of  philosophy,  the  schools  of 
art,  the  forms  of  government  and  religion.  This  analy- 
sis further  reveals  that,  while  all  these  functions  of  life 
are  in  their  nature  endlessly  mutable,  the  organic  man, 
from  whom,  under  all  variations,  thgy  get  their  vis  viva, 
remains  from  age  to  age  eternally  the  same.  While 
each  successive  generation  has  its  fresh,  particular  busi- 
ness on  the  earth,  —  something  to  do  for  the  race,  which 
succeeding  generations  will  not  have  the  time,  even 
as  prior  generations  had  not  the  light,  to  do,  —  some- 
thing which  is  wanted  right  away,  —  something  for 
which  it  was  sent  and  for  which  the  whole  machine-shop 
of  time  had  been  shaping  the  material  to  be  worked  by 
its  special  hand,  —  analysis  discloses  that  the  capital 
upon  which  every  business  is  to  be  carried  on  undergoes 
neither  increase  nor  diminution.  There  is  just  as  much 
faith,  just  as  much  courage,  just  as  much  power  in  the 
world  as  there  ever  was.  They  do  not  show  themselves 
in  Eunnymedes,  because  Runnymede  has  been  attended 
to;  nor  in  wondrous  Abbot  Sampsons,  because  monkery 
is  mainly  cured.  They  are  not  manifest  in  martyred 
Edwardses,  because  at  this  day  Edwards  could  call  a 
policeman ;  nor  in  burning  Cranmers,  because  society  has 


The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers.       67 

made  a  phenomenal  change  in  her  method  with  martyrs 
and  shuts  them  in  a  refrigerator,  where  once  she  chained 
.  them  to  a  stake.  They  do  not  appear  in  French  Revo- 
lutions, because  the  world  has  grown  through  a  second 
American  Revolution,  grander  than  the  first,  and  a 
great  representative  native  has  plucked  Liberty  out  of 
the  fire  without  one  scorch  of  license  on  her  garments. 
They  seek  no  outlet  in  crusade,  for  Jerusalem  has  been 
made  of  as  little  consequence  as  Barnegat,  by  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  promise,  — 

"The  hour  cometh  when  ye  shall  neither  in  this 
mountain,  nor-  yet  in  Jerusalem,  worship  the  Father, 
.  .  .  when  the  true  worshippers  shall  worship  him  in 
spirit  and  in  truth." 

I  have  a  little  butcher,  who  is  Coeur  de  Lion  in  the 
small.  lie  does  not  split  heads  nor  get  imprisoned  in 
castles,  but  has  the  same  capricious  force,  the  same  ca- 
pacity for  affront-taking,  the  same  terribleness  of  retri- 
bution, and  the  same  power  of  large,  frank  forgiveness 
which  belonged  to  the  man  who  broke  the  skulls  of  the 
Saracens  and  pardoned  his  own  assassin.  I  went  to 
school  to  Frederick  the  Great.  He  did  not  take  snuff 
nor  swear  in  high  Dutch,  and  it  was  his  destiny  to  be  at 
the  head,  not  of  an  army  of  men,  but  of  one  hundred  as 
unmanageable  boys  as  ever  played  hawkey  or  "  fought 
pillows  "  in  the  dormitory.  His  solution  of  difficulties 
was  as  prompt,  his  decisions  were  as  inexorable,  he  had 
as  irascible  a  temper  and  as  admirable  a  faculty  of  or- 
ganization as  his  Prussian  prototype's.  Calvin  and 


68        The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers. 

Servetus  discuss  their  differences  at  my  dinner-table; 
the  former  possesses  all  his  old  faith  in  the  inscrutable; 
the  latter  all  his  ancient  tendency  to  bring  everything 
alleged  to  the  tribunal  of  science,  and  I  may  add  that 
Calvin  has  as  little  doubt  as  ever  of  the  propriety  of 
having  Servetus  cooked,  —  only  he  postpones  the  opera- 
tion, and  expects  to  see  it  done  without  his  help.  I  am 
acquainted  with  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  the  courtly  knight 
and  the  melodious  poet.  The  chivalry  with  which  he 
jousted  at  Kenihvorth  and  fought  at  Zutphen  are  hourly 
needed  in  the  temptations  and  harassments  of  a  broker's 
office,  and  many's  the  hard  day  through  which  it  has 
'borne  him  with  honor.  The  pen  which  he  devotes  to 
the  Muses  is  as  facile  as  in  the  Arcadian  time,  —  though 
the  sturdy  lance  he  used  to  set  in  rest  is  substituted  by 
another  pen,  of  the  fat  office  type,  consecrated  to  the 
back  of  gold  certificates  and  the  support  of  an  unmedise- 
vally  expensive  family. 

Looking  in  all  directions  round  the  Avorld,  I  find  the 
old  nobleness, —  the  primeval  sublimities  of  love  and 
courage,  faith  and  justice,  which  have  always  kept  hu- 
manity moving,  and  will  keep  it  to  the  end.  In  no  age 
has  the  quantity  of  this  nobleness  been  excessive,  but  so 
much  of  it  as  exists  is  an  imperishable  quantity.  It  is 
a  good  interred  with  no  man's  bones;  it  is  the  indispen- 
sable preventive  of  the  world's  annihilation.  Carlyle  has 
been  praised  for  the  epigrammatic  assertion  that  noth- 
ing can  be  kept  without  either  life  or  salt.  This  is  true, 
but  not  the  whole  truth;  salt  will  keep  beeves,  but  as 


The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers.       69 

for  nations  and  races  which  have  lost  their  savor,  where- 
withal shall  they  be  salted  ?  The  fact  that  mankind 
survive  at  all  is  the  proof  that  ages  have  not  tainted 
them  with  putrescence.  Things  live  only  by  the  good 
that  there  is  in  them,  and  the  interests  to  which  they 
appeal;  the  fields  which  open  to  man,  in  our  own  day, 
are  so  much  vaster  and  inassier  than  they  were  in  the 
day  of  our  fathers,  that  the  tax  on  the  activities  of  the 
race  could  not  be  met  by  our  capital  of  life  if  we  had  lost 
one  particle  of  the  good  which  supported  them. 

When  I  look  at  the  fathers,  I  recollect  that  courage 
and  love,  faith  and  justice,  have  no  swallowing  horizon, 
while  all  that  is  petty  and  base  succumbs  in  one  genera- 
tion to  the  laws  of  perspective.  It  is  pleasanter  thus. 
At  the  grave  of  the  old  schoolmaster  who  flogged  us,  we 
remember  the  silver  hair  and  the  apple  he  gave  us  once, 
—  never  the  rattan.  "We  had  fathers  after  the  flesh 
who  corrected  us,  and  we  gave  them  reverence,"  nothing 
but  reverence,  when  we  leaned  with  tearful  eyes  over 
their  vacant  chairs.  If  I  have  ever  quarrelled  with  my 
friend,  when  he  can  return  to  me  no  more,  I  make  up 
with  his  memory  by  canonizing  him.  The  tendency  to 
do  thus  is  among  the  loveliest  and  divinest  things  in  our 
nature.  But  it  is  a  still  lovelier  and  diviner  thing  to  an- 
ticipate the  parallax  of  time  and  look  upon  the  present 
with  the  same  loving,  teachable,  and  reverent  eyes,  which 
shall  be  bent  upon  it  from  the  standpoint  of  coming  gen- 
erations, lie  to  whom  the  beauty  and  nobleness  of  his 
own  time  are,  throughout  all  that  he  deplores  in  it  and 


70       The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers. 

in  himself,  the  conspicuous  objects  of  love  and  venera- 
tion, —  who  extends  the  allowance  of  the  dead  to  the 
faults  of  the  living,  —  from  whom  no  personal  disappoint- 
ments can  ever  take  away  his  faith  in  the  abiding  divinity 
of  his  kind,  —  need  never  fear  that  his  judgment  of  the 
fathers  will  be  a  churlish  and  disrespectful  one.  The 
only  object  which  such  a  man  can  have  in  recalling  the 
vices  and  defects  of  older  generations  is  to  establish 
their  kinship  with  his  own,  to  prove  his  era's  legitimacy 
against  philosophers  who  find  only  pettiness  in  the 
present  and  grandeur  in  the  past.  If  he  cannot  make 
them  see  the  good  side  by  which  the  modern  family 
receives  blood  from  the  ancient,  there  shall  not  be  any 
bend  sinister  on  his  escutcheon  because  he  neglects  to 
show  them  the  bad  one,  though  he  would  rather  vindi- 
cate his  lineage  the  other  way.  To  him  the  organic 
unity  of  mankind,  throughout  all  generations,  is  dearer 
than  the  individual  reputation  of  any  one  of  them. 

Having  the  faith  of  this  organic  unity  he  can  look  at 
the  errors  of  the  forefathers  without  pain.  They  lessen 
neither  his  love  nor  his  respect  for  them.  Who  is  there 
that  would  care  to  know  king  David  only  as  a  very 
respectable  Jew,  in  a  Sunday-school  book,  who  was 
always  successful,  invariably  pious,  and  passed  his  time 
wholly  in  playing  hymns  on  a  harp  with  a  golden  crown 
upon  his  head?  To  almost  all  young  readers,  and  many 
an  old  one,  the  vindictive  psalms  seem  a  shocking  inexpli- 
cability  in  the  sacred  canon.  The  philosopher,  however, 
feels  with  the  illiterate  preacher,  "  It  is  a  comfort  to  us 


The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers.       71 

poor  erring  mortals,  my  brethren,  to  remember  that  on 
one  occasion  even,  David,  beloved  of  the  Lord,  said  not 
only, '  I  am  mad,'  but  '  I  am  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
mad? ' "  Not  that  it  would  be  any  comfort  to  us  if  that 
were  all  we  possess  of  him;  but  we  also  have  the  record 
of  his  getting  over  it.  I  once  knew  a  little  boy  who 
learned  to  swear  out  of  the  psalms,  and  it  must  be 
acknowledged  that  of  good  round  curses  there  is  in  no 
tongue  a  much  fuller  armory.  Conscientious  persons, 
who  want  to  damn  their  enemies  without  committing  sin, 
no  doubt  often  sit  down  and  read  an  execratory  psalm 
with  considerable  relief  to  their  minds.  Not  in  this  spirit 
do  men  skilled  in  human  nature  peruse  the  grand  rages 
of  the  many-sided  fighting  bard ;  not  because  they  would 
cloak  their  errors  with  the  kingly  shadow  of  his  own, 
do  they  rejoice  that  he  exists  for  us  to-day  just  where 
the  rude,  large  simplicity  of  his  original  Hebrew  left 
him,  and  that  tame-handed  biography  has  never  been 
able  to  pumice  him  down  into  a  demi-god.  They  are 
glad  because  these  things  prove  him  human  and  imitable. 
If  his  stormy  soul  triumphed  over  itself;  if  he  could  be 
beloved  of  the  Infinite  at  a  moment  when  the  surges  of 
both  outer  and  inner  vicissitude  seemed  conspiring  to 
sweep  him  away,  then  we  cease  to  hear  his  swearing 
or  the  clamor  of  his  despair;  and  to  us,  whose  modern 
spirits  are  not  exempt  from  flood  and  hurricane,  his 
grand  voice  chants  only  cheer  down  the  centuries,  and 
we  know  that  there  is  love  caring  and  victory  waiting 


for  us  also  in  our  struggle,  since  we  are  not  the  lonely 
anomalies  of  time. 

As  with  David  so  with  all  the  men  of  the  past,  —  it 
gives  us  no  pain  to  find  that  they  were  not  a  whit  nearer 
perfection  than  ourselves.  We  do  not  regret  their  super- 
seded customs,  nor  wish  them  restored  in  the  living  age. 
He  who  takes  them  from  the  time  of  which  they  are  a 
congruous  part  and  seeks  to  import  them  into  a  day 
which  has  no  explanatory  relevance  to  them,  so  far  from 
showing  them  reverence,  is  like  a  man  who,  to  compel  the 
recognition  of  his  grandfather's  tombstone,  strips  it  of 
its  moss,  scrubs  it  with  soap  and  sand,  and  sets  it  up  on 
Broadway  among  signs  and  show-cases.  Their  opinions 
are  not  final  with  us,  because  every  age  brings  new  proofs, 
and  every  generation  is  a  new  court  of  appeal.  Their 
business  methods  are  framed  upon  a  hypothesis  which 
does  not  include  the  telegraph  or  the  steam-engine. 
Where  a  man  can  persuade  his  correspondents  to  send 
their  letters  by  the  coach  and  their  goods  by  the  freight- 
wagon,  he  may  adjust  himself  very  comfortably  to  the 
good  old  way  by  which  his  grandfather  made  a  fortune 
and  preserved  his  health  to  a  great  age.  Until  he  gets 
his  mail  weekly  and  answers  it  all  in  a  batch,  recuperat- 
ing from  that  labor  by  the  sale  of  merchandise,  one  box 
to  an  invoice,  he  is  simply  absurd  to  lament  over  the 
rapidity  with  which  fortunes  are  made  at  this  day,  and 
eulogize  the  "  sure  and  slow  "  process  by  which  a  life- 
time whose  sole  principle  was  the  avoiding  of  risks  at- 
tained the  same  object.  As  if  the  whole  problem  of 


The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers.       73 

life  were  not  how  to  secure,  as  quick  as  possible,  all  the 
material  good  necessary  for  living,  in  order  to  leave  the 
kind  free  for  all  its  higher  functions  of  self-develop- 
ment and  discipline.  As  if  money  were  not  a  mere  ex- 
pression of  the  extent  to  which  a  man  has  subordinated 
the  forces  of  the  world  to  his  own  use,  —  a  thing,  there- 
fore, which  naturally  comes  quicker  to  a  generation 
which  has  taken  all  the  great  atmospheric  and  impon- 
derable couriers  into  its  service  I 

The  true  use  of  ancestors  is  not  slavish;  we  do  not 
want  them  for  authority,  but  for  solace.  If  my  grand- 
father could  come  back,  he  certainly  would  be  too  much 
of  a  gentleman  to  sit  down  on  my  hat  or  put  his  feet  on 
my  piano:  and  how  much  less  would  he  crush  my  con- 
victions or  trample  on  my  opinions  !  He  would  be 
equally  too  much  of  a  business-man  to  interfere  in  the 
responsibilities  of  any  practical  course  I  might  take, 
when  he  had  not  looked  into  the  books  of  the  concern, 
taken  account  of  its  stock,  or  consulted  the  world's  mar- 
ket-list for  an  entire  generation.  He  would  do  what  any 
man  would  be  proud  to  have  his  grandfather  do,  —  take 
the  easiest  and  most  distinguished  chair  at  the  fireside, 
and  tell  us  night  by  night,  the  story  of  his  life.  "What 
roars  of  laughter  would  applaud  his  recollection  of  jokes 
uttered  by  some  playmate  of  his  boyhood.  They  would 
seem  so  droll  to  us  at  the  distance  of  a  hundred  years, 
though  a  contemporary  might  have  uttered  them  without 
raising  a  smile  on  our  faces.  What  mingling  of  tears  and 
laughter  would  there  be  when  he  related  some  simple 


74       The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers. 

little  family  drama,  —  its  pathos  depending  on  incidents 
as  slender  as  the  death  of  Auld  Robin  Gray's  cows,  but 
like  the  wonderful  song,  in  which  those  animals  have 
part  interest,  going  unerringly  to  the  fountains  of  the 
human  heart  I  How  would  we  double  up  our  fists,  how 
red  would  we  grow  in  the  face  when  he  told  us,  in  the 
most  unadorned,  dispassionate  way,  about  the  cruel  cred- 
itor who  foreclosed  a  mortgage  on  him  and  turned  him 
and  our  grandmother  into  the  street,  just  after  the  birth 
of  their  first  child,  our  father;  and  when  he  came  to  the 
passage  where  the  kind  friend  steps  in  and  says,  "  here 
are  five  hundred  dollars,  — pay  me  when  you  are  able," 
how  many  girls  there  would  be  sobbing,  and  men  vio- 
lently blowing  their  noses  I  If  we  had  belonged  to 
the  period  of  the  foreclosure  and  been  next-door  neigh- 
bors to  the  mortgagor,  the  thing  might  have  impressed 
us  simply  as  the  spectacle  of  a  young  couple  with  a  baby 
who  couldn't  meet  their  quarterly  payments,  and  were 
obliged  to  curtail  their  style  of  living.  •  The  thing  still 
happens,  and  that  is  the  way  we  look  .at  it.  But  when 
grandpapa  relates  it,  nothing  in  the  domestic  line  we 
ever  saw  upon  the  stage  seems  half  so  touching.  The 
littlest  school-boy  feels  a  roseate  fascination  hovering 
around  the  dogs  that  went  after  squirrels  with  that  ven- 
erable man  when  he  wore  the  roundabout  of  his  far-off 
period;  there  is  glamour  about  the  mere  fact  that  then, 
as  now,  there  were  dogs,  and  there  were  squirrels;  and 
as  the  grandchild  hears  of  the  boughs  which  hung  so 
full,  the  crisp  leaves  which  crackled  so  frostily  those 


The  Proper  use  of  Grandfathers.       75 

many,  many  falls  ago  —  a  strange  delight  comes  over 
him,  and  he  seems  to  be  going  out  chestnutting  in  the 
morning  of  the  world. 

What  we  want  of  one,  we  want  of  all  the  grandfathers 
of  the  race, — their  story.  Their  value  is  that  they  take 
the  experience  of  human  life,  and  hold  it  a  sufficient  dis- 
tance from  us  to  be  judged  in  its  true  proportions, 
That  experience  in  all  ages  is  a  solemn  and  a  beautiful, 
a  perilous,  yet  a  glorious  thing.  "We  are  too  near  the 
picture  to  appreciate  it,  as  it  appears  in  our  own  day, 
though  all  its  grand  motives  are  the  same.  We  rub  our 
noses  against  the  nobilities  and  cannot  see  them.  The 
foreground  weed  is  more  conspicuous  than  the  back- 
ground mountain.  When  the  grandfathers  carry  it 
from  us,  and  hang  it  on  the  wall  of  that  calm  gallery 
where  no  confusing  cross-lights  of  selfish  interest  any 
longer  interfere,  the  shadows  fall  into  their  proper 
places,  the  symbolisms  of  the  piece  are  manifest,  and 
above  all  minor  hillocks,  above  all  clouds  of  storm,  un- 
conscious of  its  earthquake  struggles  and  its  glacier 
scars,  Human  Kature  stands  an  eternal  tgiity,  its  peak 
in  a  clear  heaven  full  of  stars.  We  recognize  that  unity 
and  all  things  become  possible  to  us,  for  thereby  even 
the  commonest  living  is  glorified. 


7* 


AT     EVE. 


AT   EVE. 


T  is  almost  time  for  John  to  come  home,  I 
guess,"  and  the  young  wife  rose  from  her  sewing 
and  put  the  tea-kettle  over  the  bright  fire  on  the 
clean-swept  hearth.  Then  she  pulled  the  table 


out  into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  right  to  the  spot 
where  she  knew  the  setting  sun  would  soon  shine 
through  the  latticed  window ;  for  John  loved  to  see  the 
light  play  upon  the  homely  cups  and. saucers,  and  pewter 
spoons;  he  said  it  reminded  him  of  the  fairy  stories, 
where  they  ate  oft"  gold  dishes.  She  went  about  her 
work  swiftly,  but  very  quietly.  Once  there  had  been  a 
time  when  the  little  cottage  rang  early  and  late  with  the 
sound  of  her  glad  voice.  But  then  a  pair  of  little  feet 
crept  over  the  floor,  and  a  tiny  figure  had  raised  itself  up 
by  the  very  table  whose  cloth  was  now  so  smooth  and 
unruffled  by  the  small  awkward  hands. 

When  Margery  had  put  the  golden  butter,  the  jug  of 
cream,  and  the  slice  of  sweet  honey  on  the  table,  she 
went  to  the  door  to  look  for  John.  A  narrow  path, 
skirted  on  one  side  by  waving  corn-fields,  on  the  other 
by  pastures  and  orchards,  stretched  from  the  cottage 

(77) 


78  At  Eve. 

down  to  the  broader  road  that  led  to  the  village.  The 
sun  was  already  low  in  the  sky,  and  threw  across  the 
path  the  shadow  of  the  old  apple-tree  that  stood  beside 
the  house.  Margery  remembered  how  full  of  pink  and 
white  blossoms  the  tree  had  been  that  spring  when  she 
first  came  here  as  John's  bride,  and  how  they  showered 
down  like  snow,  while  now  a  ripe  apple  occasionally 
dropped  from  the  branches  with  a  heavy  plump. 

"  Here  comes  John  at  last,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  as 
she  saw  him  approaching  from  the  village.  He  was  yet 
a  considerable  distance  off,  but  Margery's  bright  eyes 
discerned  that  he  was  not  alone.  Beside  him  walked  a 
girl,  whom  Margery  had  known  already  while  they  were 
both  children.  Mary  was  called  handsome  by  the  village 
lads;  but  she  was  poor,  and  she  and  her  father  helped  to 
do  field  work,  on  the  neighboring  farms,  in  the  busiest 
seasons  of  the  year. 

As  she  and  John  advanced,  Margery  noticed  that  they 
seemed  engaged  in  earnest  conversation.  Then  John 
stood  still  and  gave  her  his  hand.  The  girl  seized  it 
eagerly  and  put  it  to  her  lips,  and  looking  up  at  him 
once,  turned  around  and  walked  back  to  the  village,  while 
John  hastened  on  with  longer  steps. 

Margery's  lips  quivered.  She  did  not  wait  for  John  at 
the  door,  but  turned  back  into  the  house,  and  was  busied 
at  the  hearth  when  he  came  in. 

"  Well,  wify,  how  goes  it  this  evening  ?  "  he  asked  in 
his  cheery  voice,  which  always  reminded  Margery  of  the 
time  when  he  used  to  add,  "  And  how  is  my  little  pet 


At  Eve.  79 

darlint  ?  "  and  pick  the  baby  up  from  the  floor.  The 
tones  of  his  voice  had  grown  almost  kinder  and  more 
cheerful  since,  if  that  were  possible,  though  he  always 
gazed  around  the  room  with  a  vague  kind  of  look,  as  if 
he  half-expected  to  see  the  baby  toddle  up  to  him  from 
Borne  corner. 

"  Thank  you,  John,  all  goes  as  well  as  usual.  You  are 
late  to-night." 

"  Yes,  there  was  something  to  detain  me,"  he  said,  as 
he  took  down  the  tin-basin  and  filled  it  with  water,  to 
wash  his  sunburnt  face  and  hands.  A  shadow  flitted 
over  Margery's  face,  but  it  was  gone  again  when  they 
sat  down  to  table.  It  was  still  light  enough  to  see  with- 
out a  candle,  though  the  golden  sunbeams  John  loved  so 
much  had  Aided  long  ago.  He  talked  cheerily  of  the 
crops,  and  of  harvest-time,  and  of  the  excellent  prospects 
for  the  coming  winter.  There  was  no  occasion  for 
Margery  to  say  much,  and  she  was  glad  of  it. 

Then  she  quickly  cleared  the  table,  and  John  sat  down 
by  the  hearth,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  laid  his  evening 
paper  across  Ms  knee  to  be  read  afterwards  by  candle- 
light. While  Margery  washed  the  dishes  there  was  no 
sound  in  the  room  but  the  clatter  of  the  cups  and  spoons, 
and  the  monotonous  ticking  of  the  old-fashioned  clock  in 
the  corner.  Margery  sometimes  glanced  over  at  John, 
who  sat  smoking  and  looking  into  the  fire.  At  last  he 
got  up,  lit  the  candle,  and,  going  up  to  Margery,  he  asked, 
"  What's  the  matter,  Margery  V  You  are  uncommonly 
silent  to-nurht." 


8o  At  Eve. 

She  stopped  in  her  work,  and  hung  the  towel  over  her 
arm. 

"  John,"  she  said,  looking  straight  at  him,  with  a 
strange  light  in  her  brown  eyes,  and  her  face  rather  pale, 
"  I  want  to  go  home." 

An  expression  half  of  pain,  half  of  astonishment,  came 
into  John's  honest  face.  He  too  was  a  shade  paler,  and 
the  candle  trembled  a  little  in  his  hand  as  he  asked,  — 

"  Is  the  house  too  lonely  again,  Margery  ?  You  did 
say  you  wanted  to  go  home  for  a  spell,  after,  after  —  but 
I  thought  you  had  got  contented  again." 

She  had  turned  away  from  him  as  she  answered,  — 

u  Yes,  John,  the  house  is  lonely  again.  I  see  the  little 
hands  on  all  the  chairs,  and  hear  the  little  feet  crawling 
over  the  floor; "  but  there  was  something  of  coldness  in 
her  tone,  very  unlike  the  pleading  voice  in  which  she  had 
once  before  made  the  same  request. 

"  Well,  Margery,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  going  to 
the  table  and  putting  the  candle  upon  it,  "  if  you  think 
it  will  ease  your  heart  to  go  and  see  the  old  folks  a  little 
while,  I  am  willing  you  should." 

He  never  spoke  of  the  utter  loneliness  that  fell  upon 
him  at  the  thought  of  her  going  away,  and  how  to  him, 
too,  the  dim  room  was  full  of  the  golden  hair  and  the 
blue  eyes  of  his  child. 

She  said  nothing. 

"  When  will  you  come  back,  Margery  ?  "  he  asked, 
after  another  pause. 

"  I  don't  know,  John." 


At  Eve.  81 

"  When  do  you  think  of  going  ?  " 

"  On  Monday  morning,  if  you  can  spare  the  horse  to 
take  me  over." 

"  I  think  I  can,  Margery;  but  I  shall  be  sorry  to  lose 
my  little  wify  so  soon,"  he  could  not  help  saying,  as  he 
laid  his  rough  hand  on  her  hair,  with  so  soft  a  touch  that 
the  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  shall  ask  Mary  to  come  here  and  keep  house  for 
you,  while  I  am  away,"  she  said.  "  Mary  is  used  to  our 
ways,  and  can  do  for  you  very  well." 

"  Mary  ?  "  asked  John,  "  I  reckon  she  will  be  busy 
enough  at  harvest-time.  I  need  nobody  when  you  are 
gone.  I  can  live  single  again,"  with  a  half  smile;  "but 
just  as  you  think,  Margery." 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject.  Margery  took 
up  her  sewing,  and  John  his  paper.  But  he  did  not  read 
very  attentively  that  evening,  but  often  stopped  and 
looked  long  and  intently  at  Margery,  who  kept  her  eyes 
steadily  on  the  busy  needle  that  was  flying  to  and  fro  in 
her  fingers.  It  was  a  Saturday,  and  John  tired  with  a 
week's  hard  labor.  So  the  fire  was  raked  for  the  night, 
the  old  clock  wound  up,  and  the  little  kitchen  soon  dark 
and  silent. 

Next  morning  Margery  awoke  bright  and  early.  So 
early  indeed,  that  through  the  open  window  of  the  bed- 
room she  could  see  the  pink  clouds  floating  in  the  sky, 
and  felt  the  cool  wind  that  always  goes  before  the  rising 
of  the  sun.  The  swallows  under  the  roof  were  just 
waking  up,  and  beginning  to  twitter  half-dreamily.  With 


82  At  Eve. 

her  hands  folded  under  her  head,  Margery  lay  musing 
for  a  long  while.  Somehow  her  whole  life  passed  before 
her  on  this  still,  holy  Sunday  morning.  She  remem- 
bered when  she  used  to  play  barefoot  in  the  little  brook 
or  sit  on  warm  summer  afternoons  on  the  straight-rowed 
wooden  benches  of  the  village  school.  How  the  years 
had  sped  by  like  a  single  day,  and  she  was  a  grown  young 
girl.  Then  John  came  and  courted  her,  and  then  — .  The 
sun  had  come  up,  and  played  in  bright  lights  over  the  ceil- 
ing, while  on  the  floor  quivered  the  shadows  of  the  rose- 
leaves  from  outside  before  the  window.  The  church- 
bell  in  the  village  began  to  ring.  Margery  listened  to 
the  sounds,  as  they  came  borne  on  the  soft  breeze,  across 
the  waving  corn-fields.  She  looked  out  at  the  blue  sky 
and  thought  of  heaven,  and  the  blessed  angels  singing  and 
rejoicing  there.  She  thought  of  her  child,  and  of  John, 
and  of  herself.  A  mingled  feeling  of  joy  and  pain,  of 
calm  and  unrest,  crept  into  her  heart.  She  felt  the  tears 
rising  to  her  eyes  again,  but  she  would  not  let  them. 
She  sprang  up,  dressed  hastily,  and  went  softly  down- 
stairs, while  John  slept  heavily  on. 

As  Margery  entered  the  kitchen,  the  cat  got  up  from 
her  rug,  stretched  her  legs  and  yawned,  and  then  came 
forward  to  be  petted.  On  the  next  Sunday,  Mary  would 
probably  be  here  to  give  pussy  her  milk,  and  stroke  her 
soft,  glossy  back.  Margery  threw  open  the  door  to  let 
in  the  beautiful  fresh  morning  air.  The  dew  lay  spark- 
ling on  the  grass  and  flowers.  Down  there  on  the  road 
was  the  spot  where  John  and  Mary  had  parted  last 


At  Eve.  83 

night.  Margery  turned  away  and  shut  the  door  again. 
Then  she  bestirred  herself  to  get  breakfast. 

"When  John  came  down  to  it,  Margery  thought  his 
step  sounded  heavier  than  she  had  ever  heard  it  before. 

"  "Will  you  go  to  church  this  morning,  Margery  ?  "  he 
asked,  when  the  simple  meal  was  over. 

"  No,  John,  I  guess  not." 

"  Well,  Margery,  I  am  going.  I  will  come  home  as 
soon  as  service  is  over;  but  I  think  it  will  do  me  good." 

"  John,  will  you  promise  me  to  " 

"  What,  Margery  ?  " 

"  This  afternoon,  after  I  have  got  ready  to  go,  will 
you  come  once  more  with  me  to  the  —  the  grave  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Margery,  yes." 

She  helped  him  on  with  his  best  coat,  brought  him  the 
prayer-book,  and  then  watched  him  from  the  window  as 
he  walked  down  the  road  with  slow  steps. 

Margery  wondered  what  could  be  the  matter  with  her- 
self that  morning.  She  felt  BO  tired  that  her  feet  almost 
refused  to  carry  her.  A  hundred  times  in  her  simple 
household  duties,  she  paused  to  take  breath,  and  sat  down 
to  rest  so  often,  that  John  came  home  from  church  and 
to  dinner,  almost  before  it  was  ready.  He  praised  the 
cookery;  but  the  dishes  were  taken  almost  untouched 
off  the  table  again,  and  when  everything  was  cleared 
away,  Margery  said,  — 

"  I  must  go  upstairs  now,  John,  to  get  ready.  I  want 
to  take  some  of  my  clothes  with  me." 

He  sat  on  the  doorstep,  holding  his  pipe,  which  had 


84  At  Eve. 

gone  out,  between  his  fingers,  and  only  nodded  his  head, 
and  said  nothing.  Margery  went  up  to  the  bedroom, 
and  began  to  open  closets  and  drawers,  and  pack  articles 
of  clothing  into  a  small  trunk.  At  last  she  unlocked  the 
great  old  bureau,  and  took  out  a  pile  of  tiny  dresses  and 
aprons,  a  tin  cup,  and  a  few  bright  marbles,  and  stowed 
them  carefully  away  in  the  trunk.  A  pair  of  small,  worn- 
out  leather  shoes,  turned  up  at  the  toes,  stood  in  the 
drawer  yet.  Should  she  carry  both  these  away,  too  ? 
No,  she  thought,  as  she  brushed  away  the  tears  that  had 
fallen  upon  it,  one  she  had  better  leave  John.  She  put  it 
resolutely  back,  locked  the  drawer,  and  laid  the  key  on 
the  top  of  the  bureau.  Now  there  was  nothing  more  to 
be  done.  She  looked  around  the  room.  Yes,  that  was 
to  be  readied  up  a  little,  so  that  John  might  not  miss  her 
too  much  for  the  first  day  or  two.  So  she  polished  the 
chairs  and  the  bureau,  and  carefully  dusted  the  mantle- 
piece,  with  the  red  and  white  china  dog  and  the  kneeling 
china  angel  that  stood  there.  Then  she  herself  was  to 
be  dressed;  she  had  almost  forgotten  that  altogether. 
She  opened  her  trunk  once  more,  and  took  out  the  dress 
John  loved  best  to  see  her  in. 

Several  hours  had  slipped  by  while  she  was  thus  em- 
ployed, and  now  the  village-clock  struck  five.  She  hast- 
ened down.  John  still  sat  on  the  doorstep  where  she 
had  left  him. 

"  John,  dear,  I  did  not  think  it  was  so  late.  It  is  time 
to  go  to  the  graveyard.  Are  you  ready  to  come  ?  " 

He  looked  up  as  if  he  had  been  dreaming,  but  rose 
and  said,  "  Yes,  Margery." 


At  Eve.  85 

He  shut  the  house-door,  and  they  turned  into  a  path  to 
the  rear  of  the  cottage.  For  some  distance  this  road, 
too,  was  skirted  on  both  sides  by  fields  of  ripened  corn. 
John  passed  his  hand  thoughtlessly  over  the  heavy  ears, 
and  now  and  then  pulled  one  up,  and  swung  it  round  in 
the  air.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  and  for  a  long  while 

• 

there  was  no  other  sound  but  the  rustle  of  their  steps. 

The  path  at  length  turned  aside  and  led  to  a  high  pla- 
teau that  overlooked  the  valley,  in  which  deep  shadows 
were  already  beginning  to  fall.  Blue  mists  crept  over 
the  foot  of  the  mountains,  while  their  tops  were  yet  lit 
up  by  the  sun.  The  smoke  from  the  chimneys  rose  up 
into  the  air,  and  the  shouts  of  the  village  children,  play- 
ing on  the  meadow,  faintly  came  up  from  below.  There 
under  that  great  oak,  the  only  tree  for  some  distance 
around,  John  had  first  asked  Margery  to  be  his  wife. 
Involuntarily  the  steps  of  both  faltered  as  they  drew 
near  the  spot,  but  neither  stopped.  Margery  glanced  up 
at  John;  she  could  not  see  his  face,  for  his  head  was 
turned,  and  he  seemed  to  be  attentively  looking  at  some- 
thing down  in  the  valley. 

Another  turn  in  the  road,  and  the  small  cemetery, 
with  the  white  stones  that  gleamed  between  the  dark 
cypress-trees,  rose  up  before  them.  In  silence  they 
found  their  way  to  the  little  grave.  John  seated  himself, 
without  a  word,  on  a  mound  opposite,  Margery  knelt 
down  and  pulled  some  dried  leaves  off  the  rose-tree  she 
had  planted,  and  bound  the  ivy  further  up  on  the  white 
marble  cross.  She  felt  that  John  watched  her,  but  did 
8* 


86  At  Eve. 

not  look  up  at  him.  Though  she  tried  hard  to  keep  them 
back,  the  tears  would  fill  her  eyes  again  and  again,  so 
that  she  could  hardly  see  to  pluck  up  the  few  weeds  that 
had  grown  among  the  grass.  When  that  was  completed, 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  tried  to  pray. 
She  wanted  to  ask  that  John  might  be  happy  while  she 
was  away,  and  that,  —  but  her  head  swam  round,  and 
she  found  no  words.  She  raised  her  eyes,  and  glanced 
at  John  through  her  fingers.  He  sat  with  his  back  to- 
ward her  now,  but  she  saw  that  his  great,  strong  frame 
trembled  with  half-suppressed  sobs. 

"  O  John  ! "  she  cried,  bursting  into  tears.  She  only 
noticed  yet  that  he  suddenly  turned  around,  and  then 
closed  her  eyes,  as  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  For  a 
time  she  heard  nothing  but  the  sound  of  her  own  low 
weeping,  and  the  throbbing  of  John's  heart.  Suddenly 
she  looked  up,  and  said,  — 

"  O  John,  dear,  dear  John,  please,  please  forgive  me  !  " 

"  Margery,"  he  answered,  in  as  firm  a  tone  as  he  could 
command,  "  don't  talk  so." 

"  Oh,  but,  John,  I  did  not  want  to  go  away  only 
because  the  house  was  so  lonely,  but  because,  —  be- 
cause," — 

"  Because  what,  Margery  ?  "  he  asked,  astonished. 

"  O  John,  because  I  —  I  thought  you  loved  Mary  bet- 
ter than  me,  because  I  saw  you  together  so  many  times 
in  the  last  weeks ;  and  she  kissed  your  hand  last  night." 

John's  clasp  about  Margery  relaxed,  and  his  arms 
sank  down  by  his  side.  His  tears  were  dried  now,  and 


At  Eve.  87 

his  earnest  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  Margery  with  a  dumb, 
half-unconscious  expression  of  surprise  and  pain.  She 
could  not  bear  the  look,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  again. 

"  No,  Margery,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  I  only  saw  Mary 
because,"  — 

Margery  raised  her  head. 

"  John,  dear  John,  don't  talk  about  it  !  I  don't  be- 
lieve it  any  more  !  I  know  I  was  a  bad,  foolish  wife  ! 
Only  love  me  again,  and  forgive  me,  dear,  dear  John  ! 
Oh,  I  don't  believe  it  any  more  I  "  and  she  took  his  right 
hand  and  kissed  it,  as  Mary  had  done. 

"  Wont  you  forgive  me,  John  ?  I  will  never,  never  go 
away  from  you,"  she  pleaded,  while  the  tears  streamed 
down  her  face. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  once  more,  and  kissed  her 
lips. 

The  red  evening  sunlight  had  crept  away  from  the 
little  grave,  and  the  dusk  was  fast  gathering  about  it. 
Margery  bent  down  and  kissed  the  wbite  marble  cross ; 
then  they  turned  their  steps  homeward,  Margery  hold- 
ing John's  hand  like  a  child. 

"  I  must  unpack  my  clothes  again  to-night,"  she  said, 
after  a  while.  "  I  have  all  the  baby's  little  things  in  my 
trunk,  but,  John,  I  was  going  to  leave  you  one  of  the 
little  shoes." 

She  felt  her  hand  clasped  closer  in  his. 

"  Margery,"  he  said  then,  "  I  think  I  had  better  tell 
you  about  Mary." 


88  At  Eve. 

u  John,  dear  John,  didn't  I  tell  you  I  don't  believe 
that  any  more,"  she  answered,  with  another  pleading 
look. 

"  No  Margery,  it  is  not  that,  but  I  guess  you  might 
help  UK.  You  never  knew  that  Mary's  father  is  getting 
very  bad  in  the  way  of  drinking.  Since  his  house  was 
burnt  down,  and  he  lost  his  property,  he  has  been  going 
on  in  that  way.  Mary  takes  it  dreadful  hard,  and  wont 
let  the  news  get  about,  if  she  can  help  it  She  thinks  so 
much  of  you,  and  she  says  you  used  to  like  her  father  so 
well,  that  she  wouldn't  have  you  know  for  almost  any 
money.  So  I  promised  not  to  tell  you.  She  has  come 
to  me  many  and  many  a  time,  crying,  and  begging  me 
to  help  her.  She  works  as  hard  as  she  can,  but  her  father 
takes  all  she  gets  ;  so  they  are  very  poor.  When  you 
saw  us  yesterday,  I  had  given  her  money  to  pay  their 
rent.  She  wants  to  raise  money  enough  to  take  him  to 
the  Asylum,  because  there  he  may  be  cured.  I  prom- 
ised her  to  get  him  some  decent  clothes." 

"  O  John,  I  wttl  sew  them.  Poor  Mary  I  and  you 
needn't  tell  her  who  sewed  them." 

"  That's  right,  Margery  ! " 

They  had  reached  the  house  by  this  time,  and  John 
opened  the  door.  The  kettle  was  singing  over  the 
hearth,  and  the  bright  tin  pans  against  the  wall  shone 
in  the  firelight.  On  the  doorstep  Margery  turned 
around,  and,  throwing  her  arms  around  John's  neck, 
said  softly,  — 

"  John,  I  am  glad  I  am  going  to  stay." 


At  Eve.  89 

When  they  had  entered,  John  lit  the  candle,  and  while 
Margery  was  getting  supper,  took  up  yesterday's  un- 
finished paper.  He  read  very  attentively  this  evening, 
but  suddenly  stopped,  and  Margery  saw  the  paper 
tremble  in  his  hand.  Then  he  rose,  gave  it  to  her,  and 
said,  in  a  husky  voice,  — 

"  Head  that,  Margery." 

Margery  read.  Then  the  paper  dropped,  and  with  a 
fresh  burst  of  tears  she  once  more  threw  her  arms  about 
John's  neck. 

In  one  corner  of  the  paper  that  lay  neglected  on  the 
floor  was  the  poem  :  — 

» "  As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  plucked  the  ripened  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
Oh,  we  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 
And  kissed  again  with  tears. 

"  For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years  ; 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
Oh,  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kissed  again  with  tears." 


BROKEN  IDOLS 

(91) 


BROKEN   IDOLS. 


X)T  long  since,  it  was  my  misfortune  to  be 
inveigled  into  attending  one  of  the  semi-peri- 
odical "  Exhibitions  "  of  the Institute,  a 

seminary  for  young  ladies.  I  say  it  was  my 
misfortune,  because,  to  please  my  better  half, 
I  abandoned  the  joys  of  my  fireside,  my  book,  and  my 
slippers,  to  stand  for  two  hours  by  an  open  window, 
with  a  cold  draft  blowing  on  my  back;  hearing,  now  and 
then,  a  few  words  of  the  sentimental  and  ':  goody  "  plat- 
itudes of  which  the  young  ladies'  essays  were  composed, 
—  the  reading  of  which  was  interspersed  with  pyrotech- 
nic performances  on  the  piano-forte,  which  the  pro- 
gramme was  kind  enough  to  inform  me  were  "  The 
Soldiers'  Chorus  from  Faust,"  "  Duette  from  N"orma," 
etc.  I  was  fortunate  in  having  a  programme  to  en- 
lighten me. 

» 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  the  "Exhibi- 
tion," except  that,  in  the  dozen  essays  which  were  read, 
all  the  verses  of  Longfellow's  "  Psalm  of  Life  "  were 
quoted,  and  that  through  them  all  there  ran  a  dismal 
monotone  of  morbid  sentiment.  One  young  lady,  who 
9  (93) 


94  Broken  Idols. 

had  a  beautiful  healthy  bloom  on  her  checks  and  wore 
quite  a  quantity  of  comfortable  and  elegant  clothing, 
uttered  a  very  touching  wail  over  her  buried  hopes, 
her  vanished  joys,  and  the  mockery  of  this  hollow- 
hearted  world.  She  stated  that  all  that's  brightest 
must  fade,  —  that  "  this  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show,  for 
man's  illusion  given,"  —  that  "our  hearts,  though  stout 
and  brave,  still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating  funeral 
marches  to  the  grave ; "  and  much  more  of  the  same  sort. 
She  was  impressed  with  the  fact  that  Time  is  an  icono- 
clast, —  which  last  word  seemed  to  strike  her  as  one  of 
the  finest  in  the  dictionary. 

This  is  very  true.  Time  does  smash  our  idols  contin- 
ually; but  should  we  lament  and  sing  dirges  and  make 
ourselves  generally  uncomfortable  on  that  account  ? 
Because  the  geese  that  we  thought  swans  have  turned 
out  to  be  only  geese  after  all,  should  we  go  into  mourn- 
ing for  our  "  buried  hopes,"  and  "  vanished  joys "  ? 
That  we  outgrow  our  youthful  fancies  is  no  more  a 
cause  for  sentimental  regret  than  that  we  outgrow  our 
youthful  jackets.  For  myself,  I  can  look  upon  the 
ashes  of  my  early  loves,  —  and  their  name  was  legion, 
—  with  as  few  tears  as  I  bestow  upon  the  ragged  rem- 
nants of  my  early  trousers. 

A  number  of  years  ago  my  young  heart's  fresh  af- 
fectipns  were  lavished  upon  the  bright-eyed  girl  whose 
father  kept  a  little  candy-shop  and  bakery  across  the 
way,  and  who  with  her  own  fair  hands  often  gave  me 
Btriped  sticks  of  stomach-ache  for  my  pennies,  and 


Broken  Idols.  95 

sometimes,  when  I  was  penniless,  sweetened  my  lot  with 
a  few  peppermint  drops,  telling  me  to  pay  for  them  when 
I  came  into  my  fortune.  Many  a  time  have  I  stood  by 
the  lighted  window  of  the  little  shop,  heedless  of  the 
bell  that  summoned  me  to  my  nightly  bread  and  milk, 
watching  her  trip  about  among  the  jars  of  candy  and 
barrels  of  nuts,  tying  up  parcels  and  making  change 
with  a  grace  that  seemed  unsurpassable.  But  there  was 
a  red-haired,  scorbutic  youth  who  drove  the  baker'a 
bread-cart,  and  also  drove  me  to  distraction.  He  was 
always  flinging  my  youth  into  my  face  and  asking  if 
my  mother  was  aware  of  my  whereabouts.  At  last  a 
grave  suspicion  forced  itself  upon  my  mind  that  Lizzie 
looked  upon  him  with  favor  and  made  light  of  my  ju- 
venile demonstrations.  Time  proved  that  my  suspicion 
was  well  founded  ;  for  one  day  a  carriage  stopped  in 
front  of  the  little  shop,  out  of  which  sprang  the  scor- 
butic young  man,  clad  in  unusually  fine  raiment,  includ- 
ing a  gorgeous  yellow  vest  and  immaculate  white  gloves, 
lie  was  followed  by  a  solemn-looking  person,  who  wore 
a  very  black  coat  and  a  very  white  choker.  They 
passed  through  the  shop  and  went  up  the  back  stairs. 
At'tur  a  while  they  returned,  and  with  them  Lizzie,  all 
smiles  and  blushes  and  ribbons  and  a  bewitching  pink 
bonnet.  The  carriage  was  driven  away  and  my  idol 
was  smashed. 

Straightway  I  builded  me  another,  which  was  in  turn 
broken,  and  followed  by  another  and  another.  Some- 
times it  was  the  dashing  highwayman,  whose  life  and 


96  Broken  Idols. 

brilliant  exploits  I  furtively  made  myself  acquainted 
with,  out  in  the  wood-house,  and  whose  picture,  in  pro- 
fuse curls,  enormous  jack-boots,  and  immense  expanse 
of  coat- flap,  graced  the  yellow  covers  of  the  Claude 
Duval  series  of  novels.  Anon  it  was  the  great  Na- 
poleon seated  so  proudly,  —  in  cheap  lithograph,  — 
upon  the  extreme  hind-quarters  of  his  fiery  charger,  and 
pointing  with  aspiring  hand  toward  the  snowy  Alps, 
that  I  set  up  and  worshipped. 

Nor  was  I  free  from  relapses  of  the  tender  passion. 
About  the  time  that  my  first  love,  Lizzie,  was  putting 
the  third  of  her  red-haired  progeny  into  pantaloons,  and 
torturing  his  fiery  elf-locks  into  an  unsightly  "  roach,1' 
and  when  I  was  a  freshman  in  college,  I  became  con- 
vinced that  the  light  of  my  life  shone  from  a  certain 
window  in  Miss  Peesley's  boarding-school;  for  behind 
that  window  a  comely  maiden,  with  golden  hair  and  eyes 
of  heavenly  blue,  slept  and  studied  and  ate  sweetmeats 
and  read  Moore's  melodies.  My  heart  was  hers  entire- 
ly, as  was  also  my  spare  coin,  —  for  we  had  specie  in 
those  days,  —  which  I  converted  into  valentines  and 
assorted  candies  and  "  The  Language  of  Flowers,"  for 
her  especial  use  and  behoof.  I  worshipped  her  at  church, 
as  she  sat,  with  a  bevy  of  other  girls,  aloft  in  the  gallery, 
the  entrance  to  which  was  guarded  by  the  ancient  and 
incorruptible  damsel  who  taught  algebra  in  Miss  Pees- 
ley's academy,  and  who  also  marshalled  the  young  ladies 
to  and  from  church,  keeping  them  under  her  eye,  and 
putting  to  rout  any  audacious  youth  who  endeavored  to 


Broken  Idols.  97 

walk  with  one  of  them.  It  was  for  her  that  I  bought  a 
flute,  and  with  much  difficulty  so  far  mastered  it  as  to 
play  "  Sweet  Home  "  and  "  What  fairy-like  music,"  — 
in  performing  which,  standing  in  the  snow  under  her 
window  at  midnight's  witching  hour,  I  caught  a  terrible 
cold,  besides  being  threatened  with  arrest  by  a  low-bred 
policeman  for  making  an  unseemly  noise  in  the  night- 
time, —  as  if  I  were  a  calliope.  It  was  to  bow  to  her 
that  I  neglected  to  split  and  carry  in  my  Saturday's 
wood,  and  stood  on  the  street-corner  all  the  afternoon, 
for  which  I  was  soundly  rated  at  night  by  my  venerable 
father,  who  also  improved  the  occasion  by  repeating  his 
regular  lecture  upon  my  inattentions  to  study  and 
general  neglect  of  duty. 

•So  great  was  my  infatuation  that  I  manifested  an  un- 
heard-of anxiety  about  the  details  of  my  dress.  I  even 
went  so  far  as  to  attend  the  Friday  evening  "  Kecep- 
tions  "  at  the  academy,  where  Miss  Peesley  graciously 
gave  the  young  gentlemen  an  opportunity  to  see  and 
converse  with  the  young  ladies,  under  her  own  supervis- 
ion. It  was  a  dismal  business,  —  sitting  bolt  upright  in 
a  straight-backed,  hair-cushioned  chair,  under  the  gaze  of 
Miss  P.  and  her  staff,  smiling  foolislily  at  some  dreary, 
pointless  sally  of  Miss  Van  Tuyl's,  who  taught  rhetoric 
and  was  remarkably  sprightly  for  one  of  her  years,  — 
crossing  and  uncrossing  my  legs  uneasily,  and  endeavor- 
ing to  persuade  myself  that  I  was  "  enjoying  the  even- 
ing." Nevertheless,  I  made  desperate  attempts  to  be 
happy  even  under  these  adverse  circumstances. 
9* 


98  Broken  Idols. 

And  what  was  my  reward  ? 

There  came  to  college  a  young  man  who  was  reputed 
to  be  a  poet.  He  wore  his  hair  long  and  parted  in  the 
middle,  was  addicted  to  broad  Byronic  collars,  could  take 
very  pretty  and  pensive  attitudes,  and  was  an  adept  in 
the  art  of  leaning  his  head  abstractedly  upon  his  hand. 
He  at  once  became  that  terrible  thing  among  the  ladies,  a 
lion.  And  he  was  a  very  impudent  lion.  Regardless  of 
my  claims  and  feelings,  he  sent  to  her,  whom  I  had  fondly 
called  mine  own,  an  acrostic  valentine  of  his  own  com- 
position, taking  care  that  she  should  know  from  whom 
it  came.  The  result  was  that  I  was  —  as  we  Western 
people  would  term  it  —  "  flopped  I  " 

And  so  another  idol  was  smashed. 

Then  came  a  reaction.  I  scorned  the  sex  and  sought 
balm  for  my  wounded  feelings  in  the  worst  pages  of 
Byron. 

Having  by  this  time  attained  the  sophomoric  dignity, 
I  discovered  that  the  end  and  ami  of  existence  was  to 
be/osi,  —  that  the  divine  significance  of  life  consisted  in 
drinking  villanous  whiskey  "  on  the  sly,"  and  proclaim- 
ing the  fact  by  eating  cardamom  seeds;  in  stealing  gates 
and  the  clapper  of  the  chapel  bell;  in  devouring  half- 
cooked  chickens,  purloined  from  professional  coops;  in 
hazing  freshmen;  in  playing  euchre  for  "ten  cents  a 
corner;  "  and  in  parading  the  streets  at  midnight,  sing- 
ing "  Landlord,  fill  the  flowing  bowl,"  and  vociferously 
urging  some  one  to  "  rip  and  slap  and  set  'em  up  ag'in, 
all  on  a  summer's  day."  I  smoked  vile  Scarfalatti  to- 


Broken  Idols.  99 

bacco  in  a  huge  Dutch  pipe,  wore  a  blue  coat  with  brass 
buttons,  a  shocking  hat,  and  my  trousers  tucked  into  my 
boots,  —  which  after  my  great  disappointment  befell  me 
I  ceased  to  black  with  any  degree  of  regularity,  —  and 
regulated  my  language  according  to  a  certain  slangy 
work  called  "  Yale  College  Scrapes." 

I  am  inclined  to  look  upon  these  youthful  pranks  not 
as  unpardonable  sins,  though  I  freely  admit  their  utter 
folly,  but  as  the  vagaries  of  immature  genius,  —  if  I  may 
say  so,  —  scorning  to  walk  decorously,  because  other 
people  do,  struggling  to  throw  off  the  fetters  of  conven- 
tionality, burning  to  distinguish  itself  in  some  new  and 
original  way,  striking  out  from  the  beaten  paths,  —  to 
repent  of  it  afterward.  For  it  does  not  take  many  years 
lo  teach  one  that  the  beaten  paths  are  the  safest;  and  I 
have  often  wished  that  I  had  had  a  tithe  of  the  appli- 
cation and  assiduity  of  "Old  Sobriety,"  as  we  rapid 
youngsters  called  the  Nestor  of  the  class,  who  plodded 
on  from  morn  till  dewy  eve  and  far  into  the  night, 
and  quietly  carried  off  the  honors  from  the  brilliant 
geniuses,  who  wore  flash  neckties  and  shone  at  free- 
and-easys.  But  what  thoughtless  college-boy  does  not 
prefer  worshipping  at  the  shrine  of  the  fast  goddess 
to  treading  the  straight  and  safe  paths  of  proprie- 
ty ?  It  takes  time  and  one  or  two  private  interviews 
with  a  committee  of  the  Faculty  to  rid  him  of  his  de- 
lusion. 

I  have  been  making  these  confessions  to  show  that  I, 
too,  as  well  as  the  handsome  and  healthy  young  lady 


loo  Broken  Idols. 

whose  essay  furnishes  iny  text,  have  had  some  joys  that 
are  vanished  and  some  hopes  that  are  buried. 

But  I  do  not  therefore  find  that  this  world  is  a  dark 
and  dreary  desert.  I  do  not  rail  at  life  as  a  hollow 
mockery,  nor  long  to  lay  my  weary  head  upon  the  lap 
of  earth.  On  the  contrary,  the  longer  I  live  in  this 
world,  the  better  I  like  it.  It  is  a  jolly  old  world,  after 
all;  and,  though  Time  is  an  iconoclast  and  does  smash 
our  idols  with  a  ruthless  hand,  it  is  only  to  purify  our 
vision;  and,  as  the  fragments  tumble  and  the  dust  set- 
tles, we  see  the  true,  the  beautiful,  and  the  joyous  in 
life  more  clearly.  I  know  that  life  has  its  disappoint- 
ments and  crosses ;  but  I  think  that  it  is  too  short  for 
sentimental  lamentation  over  them.  In  homely  phrase, 
"  There  is  no  use  in  crying  over  spilt  milk."  If  Dame 
Fortune  frowns,  laugh  her  in  the  face,  and,  with  a  light 
heart  and  brave  spirit,  woo  her  again,  and  you  will 
surely  win  her  smile.  I  am  as  fully  impressed  as  any 
one  with  the  fact  that  this  world  is  not  our  permanent 
abiding-place;  but  that  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
underrate,  abuse,  and  malign  it.  There  is  such  a  thing 
as  being  too  other-worldly.  The  grand  truths  and 
beautiful  teachings  of  God's  gospel  do  not  conflict  with 
the  grandeur,  the  beauty,  and  the  mystery  of  God's 
handiwork,  the  world;  and  we  can  no  more  afford  to 
despise  and  dispense  with  the  one  than  with  the  other. 
And  it  seems  to  me  that  we  cannot  better  prepare  for 
enjoying  the  life  hereafter  than  by  a  healthy,  hearty, 
rational  enjoyment  of  the  one  that  is  here. 


Broken  Idols.  101 

Do  not,  then,  O  youth,  sit  down  and  grow  sentimental 
over  your  fancied  griefs*  Do  not  waste  your  time  in 
shedding  weak  tears  over  the  fragments  of  your  broken 
idols.  Kick  the  rubbish  aside,  and  go  on  your  way, 
with  head  erect  and  heart  open  to  the  sweet  influences 
of  this  bright  and  beautiful  world,  and  you  cannot  fail 
to  find  it  not  a  "  Piljin's  Projiss  of  a  Wale,"  but 

"A  sunshiny  world,  full  of  laughter  and  leisure." 

In  worthy  action  and  healthy  enjoyment  you  will  find 
a  cure  for  all  your  imaginary  woes  and  all  your  maud- 
lin fine  feelings. 

In  two  little  lines  lies  the  clue  to  an  honorable  and 
happy  life:  — 

"  Thou  shalt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only 
And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live." 


DR.  HUGER'S  INTENTION. 

(103) 


DR.  HUGER'S  INTENTION. 


K.  HUGEK  was  thirty  years  old  when  he  delib- 
erately resolved  to  be  in  love,  —  I  cannot  say 
"  fall  in  love  "  of  anything  so  matter-of-fact  and 
well-considered.  He  made  up  his  mind  that 
marriage  was  a  good  thing,  —  that  he  was  old  enough 
to  marry,  —  finally,  that  he  would  marry.  Then  he 
decided,  with  equal  deliberation,  on  the  qualifications 
necessary  in  the  lady,  and  began  to  look  about  him  to 
find  her.  She  must  be  a  blonde.  Above  all  things  else, 
he  must  have  her  gentle  and  trustful;  and  he  believed 
that  gentleness  and  trustfulness  inhered  in  the  blue- 
eyed,  fair-haired  type  of  womanhood.  She  must  be  ap- 
preciative, but  not  strong-minded,  —  well-bred,  with  a 
certain  lady-like  perfectness,  which  could  not  be  criti- 
cised, and  yet  which  would  always  save  her  from  being 
conspicuous.  Not  for  the  world  would  he  have  any 
new-fangled  woman's-rights  notions  about  her. 

You  might  fancy  it  would  be  a  somewhat  difficult 

matter  for  him  to  find  precisely  the  realization  of  this 

ideal;  but  here  fate  befriended  him, —  fate,  who  seemed 

to  have  taken  Dr.  Huger  under  her  especial  charge,  and 

10  (105) 


io6  Dr.  Huger's  Intention. 

had  been  very  kind  to  him  all  his  life.  He  looked  out 
of  his  window,  after  he  had  come  to  the  resolution  here- 
tofore recorded,  and  saw  Amy  Minturn  tripping  across 
the  village  green. 

Amy  was  eighteen, —  blonde,  blue-eyed,  innocent, 
well-bred,  unpresuming,  without  ambition,  and  without 
originality.  She  was  very  lovely  in  her  own  quiet,  tea- 
rose  style.  Her  position  was  satisfactory;  for  her  father, 
Judge  Minturn,  was  a  man  of  mark  in  Windham,  and 
one  of  Dr.  Huger's  warmest  friends.  So,  having  decided 
that  here  was  on  embodiment  of  all  his  "  must-haves," 
the  doctor  went  over  that  evening  to  call  at  the  Minturn 
mansion.  Not  that  the  call  in  itself  was  an  unusual  oc- 
currence. He  went  there  often;  but  hitherto  his  con- 
versation had  been  principally  directed  to  the  judge, 
and  to-night  there  was  a  noticeable  change. 

Amy  was  looking  her  loveliest,  in  her  diaphanous 
muslin  robes,  with  blue  ribbons  at  her  throat,  and  in 
her  soft  light  hair.  Dr.  Huger  wondered  that  he  had 
never  before  noticed  the  pearly  tints  of  her  complexion, 
the  deep  lustrous  blue  of  her  eyes,  the  dainty,  flower-like 
grace  of  her  words  and  ways.  He  talked  to  her,  and 
watched  the  changing  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  rip- 
pling smiles,  until  he  began  to  think  the  falling  in  love, 
to  which  he  had  so  deliberately  addressed  himself,  the 
easiest  and  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world.  She  had  the 
prettiest  little  air  of  propriety,  —  half  prudish,  and  half 
coquettish.  She  received  his  attentions  with  a  shy  grace 
that  was  irresistibly  tempting. 


Dr.  Huger's  Intention.  107 

He  went  often  to  Judge  Minturn's  after  that  —  not  too 
often,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  startle  his  pretty  Amy  by 
attentions  too  sudden  or  too  overpowering;  and,  indeed, 
there  was  nothing  in  the  gentle  attraction  by  which  she 
drew  him  to  hurry  him  into  any  insane  forgetfulness  of 
his  customary  moderation.  But  he  liked  and  approved 
her  more  and  more.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  give  her 
a  little  longer  time  in  which  to  become  familiar  with 
him,  and  then  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife. 

When  he  had  reached  this  determination,  he  was  sent 
for,  one  August  day,  to  see  a  new  patient,  —  a  certain 
Miss  Colchester.  He  was  thinking  about  Amy  as  he 
went  along,  —  laughing  at  the  foolish  old  notion  con- 
cerning the  course  of  true  love;  for  what  could  run  any 
smoother,  he  asked  himself,  than  his  had  ?  It  seemed 
to  him  as  simple  and  pretty  as  an  idyl,  —  the  "^Miller's 
Daughter  "  New  Englandized. 

"  Ob,  that  I  were  beside  her  now ! 
Oh,  will  she  answer  if  I  call  ? 
Oh,  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow,  — 
Sweet  Amy,  —  if  I  told  her  all  ?  " 

he  hummed,  half  unconsciously,  as  he  walked  on. 

Soon  he  came  in  sight  of  Hock  Cottage,  the  place  to 
which  he  was  going,  and  began  thereupon  to  speculate 
about  Miss  Colchester.  Of  course  she  was  one  of  the 
summer  boarders  of  whom  Rock  Cottage  was  full.  He 
wondered  whether  she  were  young  or  old,  —  whether  he 
should  like  her,— whether  she  would  be  good  pay;  —  and 


io8  Dr.  Plugcr's  Intention. 

by  this  time,  he  had  rung  the  bell,  and  was  inquiring  for 
her  of  the  tidy  girl  who  answered  his  summons. 

He  was  shown  into  a  little  parlor  on  the  first  floor, 
and,  pausing  a  moment  at  the  door,  he  looked  at  his  pa- 
tient. A  very  beautiful  woman,  he  said  to  himself,  but 
just  such  an  one  as  he  did  not  like.  She  sat  in  a  low 
chair,  her  back  to  the  window  and  her  face  turned  to- 
ward him.  She  wore  a  simple  white-cambric  wrapper. 
Her  beauty  had  no  external  adornment  whatever.  It 
shone  upon  him  startlingly  and  unexpectedly,  as  if  you 
should  open  a  closet,  where  you  were  prepared  to  find 
an  old  family  portrait  of  some  stiff  Puritan  grand- 
mother, and  be  confronted,  instead,  by  one  of  Murillo's 
Spanish  women,  passionate  and  splendid.  For  Miss 
Colchester  was  not  unlike  those  Murillo-painted  beau- 
ties. She  had  a  clear,  dark  skin,  through  which  the 
changeful  color  glowed  as  if  her  cheeks  were  transpar- 
ent; dark,  heavily- falling  hair;  low  brow;  great,  pas- 
sionate, slumbrous  eyes ;  proud,  straight  features.  There 
was  nothing  like  a  New-England  woman  about  her. 
That  was  Dr.  Huger's  first  thought;  and  she  read  it, 
either  through  some  subtle  clairvoyant  power,  or,  a 
simpler  solution,  because  she  knew  that  every  one,  who 
saw  her  under  these  cool  skies  of  the  temperate  zone, 
would  naturally  think  that  thought  first.  Her  full, 
ripe  lips  parted  in  a  singular  smile,  as  she  said,  — 

"  You  are  thinking  that  I  am  not  of  the  North.  You 
are  right.  I  was  born  in  New  Orleans.  I  am  a  Creole 
of  the  Creoles,  I  don't  like  the  people  here.  I  sent  for 
you  because  you  were  German,  at  least  by  descent." 


Dr.  Huger*s  Intention.  109 

"  How  did  you  know  it  ?  " 

It  was  an  abrupt  question  for  a  man  of  the  doctor's 
habitual  grave  courtesy;  but  she  seemed  to  him  unique, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  maintain  his  old  equipoise  in 
her  presence.  She  had  read  his  thought  like  a  witch. 
Was  there  something  uncanny  about  her  ? 

"  How  did  I  know  you  were  German  ?  "  She  smiled. 
"Because  your  name  suggested  the  idea,  and  then  I 
saw  you  in  the  street,  and  your  features  indorsed  the 
hint  your  name  had  given  me." 

"I  am  glad  that  anything  should  have  made  you  think 
of  me." 

It  was  one  of  the  conventional  platitudes,  of  which 
self-complacent  men,  like  Dr.  Huger,  keep  a  stock  on 
hand  for  their  lady  friends.  Miss  Colchester  saw  its 
poverty,  and  smiled  at  it,  as  she  answered  him, — 

"I  think  of  every  one  with  whom  I  come  in  contact; 
and  I  thought  of  you,  especially,  because  I  intended 
from  the  first,  if  there  were  a  good  physician  here,  to 
consult  him." 

The  doctor  looked  into  her  radiant  face. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  ill  ?  " 

He  had  sat  down  beside  her  by  this  time,  and  taken 
her  hand.  It  gave  him  a  curious  sensation  as  it  lay 
quietly  in  his.  He  felt  as  if  there  were  more  life,  more 
magnetism,  in  it  than  in  any  hand  he  had  ever  touched. 

"That  you  must  tell  me,"  she  said,  quietly.  "My 
heart  feels  strangely,  sometimes;  it  beats  too  rapidly, 
I  think,  and  sometimes  very  irregularly.  I  have  lived 
10* 


no  Dr.  Hugcr's  Intention. 

too  fast,  —  suffered  and  enjoyed  too  keenly.  The  poor 
machine  is  worn  out,  perhaps.  I  look  to  you  to  inform 
me  whether  I  am  in  danger." 

"  I  must  have  my  stethoscope.  I  will  go  for  it.  Are 
you  sure  you  can  bear  the  truth  ?  " 

She  smiled,  —  a  cool  smile  touched  with  scorn. 

"I  have  not  found  life  so  sweet,"  she  said,  "that  its 
loss  will  trouble  me.  I  only  want  to  know  how  long 
I  am  likely  to  have  in  which  to  do  certain  things.  If 
you  can  tell  me,  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

As  Dr.  Huger  went  home,  he  met  Amy.  Something 
in  the  sight  of  her  fresh,  blonde  beauty,  with  its  fulness 
of  life  and  health,  jarred  on  his  mood.  He  bowed  to 
her  with  a  preoccupied  air,  and  hurried  on.  When  he 
went  back  to  Hock  Cottage,  Miss  Colchester  was  sitting 
just  as  he  had  left  her.  To  sit  long  at  a  time  in  one 
motionless  attitude  was  a  peculiarity  of  hers.  Her 
manner  had  always  a  singular  composure,  though  her 
nature  was  impetuous. 

He  placed  over  her  heart  the  instrument  he  had 
brought,  then  listened  a  long  time  to  its  beating.  He 
dreaded  to  tell  her  the  story  it  revealed  to  him,  and  at 
last  made  up  his  mind  to  evade  the  responsibility. 
When  he  had  come  to  this  conclusion,  he  raised  his 
head. 

"  I  do  not  feel  willing,"  he  said,  "  to  pronounce  an 
opinion.  Let  me  send  for  a  medical  man  who  is  older, 
who  has  had  more  experience." 

She  raised  her  dark  eyes,  and  looked  full  in  his  face. 


Dr.  Hugcr's  Intention.  in 

"  You  are  afraid  to  tell  me,  after  all  I  said  ?  Will 
you  not  believe  that  I  do  not  care  to  live  ?  I  shall  send 
for  no  other  physician.  I  look  for  the  truth  from  your 
lips.  You  find  my  heart  greatly  enlarged  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  I  did  not  like  to  trust  my  own  judgment; 
but  that  ts  my  opinion." 

"And  if  you  are  right  I  shall  be  likely  to  live  — how 
long?" 

"  Possibly  for  years.  Probably  for  a  few  months. 
There  is  no  help,  —  I  mean,  no  cure.  If  you  suffer 
much  pain,  that  can  be  eased,  perhaps." 

Miss  Colchester  was  silent  a  few  moments.  Dr.  Hu- 
ger  could  see  no  change  in  her  face,  though  he  watched 
her  closely.  The  color  neither  left  her  cheeks  or  deep- 
ened in  them.  He  did  not  see  so  much  as  an  eyelash 
quiver.  At  last  she  spoke, — 

"  You  have  been  truly  kind,  and  I  thank  you.  I  be- 
lieve I  am  glad  of  your  tidings.  I  think  I  shall  stay 
here  in  Windham  till  the  last.  I  would  like  one  autumn 
among  these  grand  old  woods  and  hills.  I  have  nothing 
to  call  me  away.  I  can  do  all  which  I  have  to  do  by  let- 
ter, and  my  most  faithful  friend  on  earth  is  my  quadroon 
maid  who  is  here  with  me.  She  will  be  my  nurse,  if  I 
need  nursing.  And  you  will  be  my  physician,  —  will 
you  not  ?  " 

"  I  will  when  I  can  help  you.  At  other  times,  may  1 
not  be  your  friend,  and  as  such  come  to  see  you  as  often 
as  I  can  ?  " 

"  Just  as  often,  —  the  oftener  the  better,"  she  an- 


112  Dr.  Huger's  Intention. 

swered,  with  that  smile  which  thrilled  him  so  strange- 
ly every  time  he  met  it.  "  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  see 
you.  Your  visits  will  be  a  real  chanty;  for,  except 
Lisette,  I  am  quite  solitary." 

He  understood  by  her  manner  that  it  was  time  to  go, 
and  took  his  leave. 

That  night  he  walked  over  to  Judge  Minturn's.  Amy 
was  just  as  pretty  as  ever,  — just  as  graceful  and  gentle 
and  faultless  in  dress  and  manner.  Why  was  it  that  he 
could  not  interest  himself  in  her  as  heretofore  ?  Had 
the  salt  lost  its  savor  ?  His  judgment  endorsed  her  as 
it  always  had.  She  was  precisely  the  kind  of  woman  to 
make  a  man  happy.  That  pure  blonde  beauty,  with  its 
tints  of  pearl  and  pink,  was  just  what  he  wanted,  always 
had  wanted.  Why  was  it  that  he  was  haunted  all  the 
time  by  eyes  so  different  from  those  calm  blue  orbs  of 
Amy's  ?  He  thought  it  was  because  his  new  patient's 
case  had  interested  him  so  much  in  a  medical  point  of 
view.  He  was  tired,  and  he  made  it  an  excuse  for  short- 
ening his  call. 

He  went  home  to  sit  and  smoke  and  speculate  again 
about  Miss  Colchester.  He  seemed  to  see  her  wonderful 
exotic  face  through  the  blue  smoke-wreaths.  Her  words 
and  ways  came  back  to  him.  He  had  discovered  so  soon 
that  she  was  no  gentle,  yielding  creature.  She  had 
power  enough  to  make  her  conspicuous  anywhere  — 
piquant  moods  and  manners  of  her  own,  which  a  man 
could  find  it  hard  to  tame.  He  was  glad,  —  or  thought 
he  was,  —  that  such  office  had  not  fallen  to  his  share, 


Dr.  Hugcr's  Intention.  113 

—  that  the  woman  he  had  resolved  to   marry  was  so 
unlike  her;  yet  he  could  not  banish  the  imperious  face 
which  haunted  his  fancy. 

The  next  day  found  him  again  at  Rock  Cottage;  but 
he  waited  until  afternoon,  when  all  his  other  visits  had 
been  made.  It  was  a  warm  day ;  and  Miss  Colchester 
was  again  in  white,  but  in  full  fleecy  robes,  whose  ef- 
fect was  very  different  from  the  simple  cambric  wrap 
per  she  had  worn  the  day  before.  Ornaments  of 
barbaric  gold  were  in  her  ears,  at  her  throat,  and 
manacled  her  wrists.  A  single  scarlet  lily  drooped 
low  in  her  hair.  She  looked  full  of  life,  —  strong, 
passionate,  magnetic  life.  Was  it  possible  that  he  had 
judged  her  case  aright  ?  Could  death  come  to  spoil  this 
wonderful  beauty  in  its  prime  ? 

Their  talk  was  not  like  that  of  physician  and  patient. 
It  touched  on  many  themes,  and  she  illuminated  each  one 
with  the  quick  brilliancy  of  her  thought.  He  grew  ac- 
quainted with  her  mind  in  the  two  hours  he  spent  with 
her;  but  her  history, —  who  she  was, —  whence  she  came, 

—  why  she  was  at  Windham,  —  remained  as  mysterious 
as  before.    Her  maid  canie  in  once  or  twice,  and  called 
her  "  Miss  Pauline,"  and  this  one  item  of  her  first  name 
was  all  that  he  knew  about  her  more  than  he  had  discov- 
ered yesterday.    He  saw  her,  —  a  woman  utterly  differ- 
ent from  the  gentle,  communicative,  impressible,  blue- 
eyed  ideal  he  had  always  cherished,  —  a  woman  with 
whom,  had  she  been  in  her  full  health,  his  reason  would 
have  pronounced  it  madness  to  fall  in  love.    How  much 


114  Dr.  Hugers  Intention. 

more  would  it  be  madness  now,  when  he  knew  that  she 
was  going  straight  to  her  doom, — that  when  the  summer 
came  again,  it  would  shine  upon  her  grave  !  And  yet  it 
seemed  as  if  the  very  hopelessness  of  any  passion  for  her 
made  her  power  over  him  more  fatal. 

lie  went  to  see  her  day  after  day.  He  did  not  con- 
sciously neglect  Amy  Minturn,  because  he  did  not  think 
about  her  at  all.  She  was  no  more  to  him  in  those  days 
than  last  year's  roses,  which  had  smelled  so  sweet  to  him 
in  their  prime.  He  was  absorbed  in  Pauline  Colchester 
—  lived  in  her  life.  She  accepted  his  devotion,  simply 
because  she  did  not  understand  it.  If  she  had  been  in 
health,  she  would  have  known  that  this  man  loved  her; 
but  the  knowledge  of  her  coming  fate  must  make  all  that 
impossible,  she  thought.  So  she  accepted  his  friendship 
with  a  feeling  of  entire  security;  and,  though  she  revealed 
to  him  no  facts  of  her  material  life,  admitted  him  to  such 
close  intimacy  with  her  heart  and  soul  as,  under  other 
circumstances,  he  might  never  have  reached  in  a  lifetime 
of  acquaintance. 

And  the  nearer  he  drew  to  her  the  more  insanely  he 
loved  her,  —  loved  her,  though  he  knew  the  fate  which 
waited  for  her,  the  heart-break  he  was  preparing  for  him- 
self. 

At  last  he  told  her.  He  had  meant  to  keep  his  secret 
until  she  died,  but  in  spite  of  himself  it  came  to  his  lips. 

In  September  it  was,  —  one  of  those  glorious  autumn 
days  when  the  year  seems  at  flood-tide,  full  of  a  ripe 
glory,  which  thrills  an  imaginative  temperament  as  does 


Dr.  linger  s  Intention.  115 

no  tender  verdure  of  spring,  no  bravery  of  summer. 
Pauline  Colchester,  sensitive  to  all  such  influences  as 
few  are,  was  electrified  by  it.  Dr.  Huger  had  never 
seen  her  so  radiant,  so  full  of  vitality.  It  seemed  to  him 
impossible  that  she  should  die.  If  he  had  her  for  his 
own,  —  if  he  could  make  her  happ}r, —  could  he  not 
guard  her  from  every  shock  or  excitement,  and  keep 
her  in  such  a  charmed  atmosphere  of  peace  that  the 
worn-out  heart  might  last  for  many  a  year  ? 

It  was  the  idlest  of  lover's  dreams,  the  emptiest  and 
most  baseless  of  hopes,  which  he  would  have  called  any 
other  man  insane  for  cherishing.  But  he  grasped  at  it 
eagerly,  and,  before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  had 
breathed  out  his  longing  at  the  feet  of  Miss  Colchester. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  she  said,  after  a  silent  space,  "  that 
you  could  have  loved  me  so  well  ?  That  you  would 
have  absorbed  into  your  own  the  poor  remnant  of  my 
life,  and  cherished  it  to  the  end  ?  I  ought  to  be  sorry 
for  your  sake;  but  how  can  I,  when  just  such  a  love  ia 
what  I  have  starved  for  all  my  life  ?  I  have  no  right  to 
it  now.  I  am  Mrs.,  not  Miss,  Col<Ppster.  I  was  Pauline 
Angereau  beforeRalph  Colchester' found  me  and  married 
me.  I  had  money  and,  I  suppose,  beauty;  perhaps  he 
coveted  them  both.  He  made  me  believe  that  he  loved 
me  with  all  his  heart;  and  then,  when  I  was  once  his 
wife,  he  began  torturing  me  to  death  with  his  neglecf, 
and  his  cruelty.  He  was  a  bad  man;  and  I  don't  believe 
there  is  a  woman  on  earth  strong  enough  to  have  saved 
him  from  himself.  I  bore  everything,  for  two  years,  in 


n6  Dr.  Huger' s  Intention. 

silence.  Then  I  found  that  it  was  killing  me,  and,  in  one 
of  his  frequent  absences,  I  came  away  to  die  in  peace. 
When  it  is  all  over,  Lisette  will  write  to  him.  He  will 
have  the  fortune  he  longed  for,  without  the  encumbrance 
of  which  he  tired  so  soon.  You  must  not  see  me  any 
more.  Bound  as  I  am,  feeling  what  you  feel,  there 
would  be  sin  in  our  meeting.  And  yet  I  shall  die  easier 
for  knowing  that,  once  in  my  life,  I  have  been  loved  for 
myself  alone." 

Then  Dr.  Huger  rose  to  go.  To-morrow,  perhaps  he 
could  combat  those  scruples  of  hers;  but  to-day,  there 
was  no  more  to  be  said  to  this  woman  whom  another  man 
owned.  To-morrow,  he  could  tell  better  how  nearly  he 
could  return  to  the  quiet  ways  of  friendship,  —  whether 
it  would  be  possible  for  him  to  tend  her,  brother-like,  to 
the  last,  as  he  had  meant  to  do  before  he  loved  her.  He 
took  her  hand  a  moment,  and  said,  in  a  tone  which  he 
tried  so  hard  to  make  quiet  that  it  almost  sounded 
cold,  — 

u  I  must  go  now.  I  dare  not  stay  and  talk  to  you.  I 
will  come  again  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  to-morrow." 

Her  face  kindled,  as  she  spoke,  with  a  strange  light 
as  of  prophecy.  What  "  to-morrow  "  meant  to  her  he 
did  not  know.  He  turned  away  suddenly,  for  his  heart 
was  sore;  and,  as  he  went,  he  heard  her  say,  speaking 
very  low  and  tenderly,  — 

"  God  bless  you,  Francis  Huger." 

The  next  day  he  went  again  to  Hock  Cottage.    He 


Dr.  auger's  Intention.  117 

had  fought  his  battle  and  conquered.  He  thought  now 
that  he  could  stay  by  her  to  the  end,  and  speak  no  word, 
look  no  look,  which  should  wrong  her  honor  or  his  own. 
He  asked  for  her  at  the  door  as  usual;  and  they  told 
him  she  had  paid  her  bill  that  morning,  and  left.  She 
had  come,  they  said,  no  one  knew  from  whence;  and  no 
one  knew  where  she  had  gone.  She  had  left  no  messages 
and  given  no  address. 

Dr.  Huger  understood  that  this  was  something  she 
had  meant  to  keep  secret  from  him  of  all  others.  Was 
he  never  to  see  her  again  ?  When  she  had  said,  "  Yes,  to- 
morrow," could  she  have  meant  the  long  to-morrow, 
when  the  night  of  death  should  be  over  ?  He  turned 
away,  making  no  sign  of  disappointment,  —  his  sorrow 
dumb  in  his  heart;  and,  as  he  went,  her  voice  seemed 
again  to  follow  him,  — 

"  God  bless  you,  Francis  Huger." 

For  two  months  afterward,  he  went  the  round  of  his 
daily  duties  in  a  strange,  absent,  divided  fashion.  He 
neither  forgot  nor  omitted  anything;  yet  he  saw  as  one 
who  saw  not,  and  heard  with  a  hearing  which  conveyed 
to  his  inward  sense  no  impression.  She  was  With  him 
everywhere.  All  the  time,  he  was  living  over  the  brief 
four  weeks  of  their  acquaintance,  in  which,  it  seemed  to 
him,  he  had  suffered  and  enjoyed  more  than  in  all  the 
rest  of  his  lifetime.  Every  day,  every  hour,  he  expected 
some  message  from  her.  He  felt  a  sort  of  conviction 
that  she  would  not  die  until  he  had  seen  her  again.  He 
thought,  at  last,  that  his  summons  to  her  side  had  come. 
11 


n8  Dr.  Huger^s  Intention. 

He  opened,  one  day,  a  letter  directed  in  a  hand  with 
which  he  was  not  familiar.  He  read  in  it,  with  hurry- 
ing pulses,  only  these  words  :  — 

"  Madame  Pauline  Angereau  Colchester  is  dead.  I 
obey  her  wish  in  sending  you  these  tidings. 

"  LISETTE." 

From  the  letter  had  dropped,  as  he  unfolded  it,  a  long 
silky  tress  of  dark  hair.  He  picked  it  up,  and  it  seemed 
to  cling  caressingly  to  his  fingers.  It  was  all  he  could 
ever  have  in  this  world  of  Pauline  Colchester.  Her  "  to- 
morrow "  had  come.  His  would  come,  too,  by-and-by. 
"What  then  ?  God  alone  knew  whether  his  soul  would 
ever  find  hers,  when  both  should  be  immortal. 

Will  he  go  back  again  some  day  to  Amy  Minturn  ? 
Who  can  tell  ?  Men  have  done  such  things.  It  will 
depend  on  how  weary  the  solitary  way  shall  seem,— 
how  much  he  may  long  for  his  own  fireside.  At  any 
rate,  he  will  never  tell  her  the  story  of  Pauline. 


THE  MAN  WHOSE  LIFE  WAS  SAVED. 

(119) 


THE  MAN  WHOSE  LIFE  WAS  SAVED. 


a  pleasant,  sunshiny  afternoon  of  early  sum- 
mer, Mile.  Lisa  sat  knitting  in  the  door-way  of 
a  white,  shining  house,  fronting  on  a  silent,  re- 
mote street  of  a  garrisoned  town  of  France,  not 
far  distant  from  Paris.  The  street  was  nar- 
row and  badly  paved  with  sharp,  irregular  stones,  slop- 
ing gradually  down  to  a  point  in  the  centre,  which  formed 
the  gutter,  and  at  night  was  feebly  lighted  by  an  «il- 
lamp  suspended  to  a  rope  and  stretched  across  the  street 
at  the  corners.  The  general  aspect  of  the  place  was  not 
amusing,  for  the  habitations  were  few  and  the  passers- 
by  fewer.  Long  rows  of  high,  white-washed  walls,  the 
boundaries  of  gentlemen's  gardens,  garnished  with 
broken  glass  and  pots  of  cactus,  gave  a  certain  monoto- 
ny to  the  Rue  Arc  en  Ciel.  The  very  blossoms  of  the 
fruit-trees  and  flowering-shrubs  behind  the  white- washed 
walls,  looked  sleepily  over  their  barriers,  as  they  dif- 
fused the  contagious  languor  of  their  odors  along  the 
silent  white  street.  These  drowsy  influences,  however, 
seemed  in  no  ways  to  diminish  the  carolling  propensi- 
11*  (121) 


122      The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved. 

ties  of  Mile.  Lisa,  or  to  abate  in  any  particular  the  ardor 
of  her  knitting. 

Lisa  Ledru  was  the  daughter  of  the  proprietaire  of 
No.  29, —  a  worthy  woman  who  had  toiled  to  sustain  her- 
self and  an  agreeable,  sprightly  husband,  addicted  to  no 
vice  save  that  of  contented  idleness,  through  many  long, 
weary  years,  and  had  brought  up  her  only  child,  Lisa,  to 
a  point  of  prettiness  and  usefulness,  which  compensated 
for  past  sacrifices,  and  promised  well  for  the  future. 

Madame  Ledru's  house  had  been  for  years  the  abode 
of  militaires.  She  would  occasionally  condescend  to  the 
admission  of  a  bourgeois,  but  this  infringement  of  hab- 
it and  inclination  was  but  a  condescension  after  all,  and 
left  her  with  a  certain  sense  of  degradation,  when  she 
exposed  her  staircase,  which  had  creaked  so  long  under 
the  thundering  tread  of  martial  heel  and  spur,  to  the 
mild,  apologetic  footstep  of  a  man  of  peace.  Mme.  Le- 
dru's principles  were  well-known  and  properly  appre- 
ciated by  the  regiments  in  garrison,  and  her  hoxtse  never 
lacked  inmates.  Her  reputation  for  discretion  and 
adroitness,  in  bringing  order  out  of  the  chaotic  love  af- 
fairs which  perpetually  entangled  the  impetuous  sons  of 
Mars,  was  established  on  the  firmest  basis.  !N"o  lodger 
was  ever  "  at  home  "  to  an  importunate  creditor,  so  long 
as  madame's  ample  person  could  bar  the  passage  to 
their  entrance,  and  no  tete-a-tete  of  a  tender  nature  was 
ever  interrupted  by  the  untimely  appearance  of  a  cher- 
ished mother  or  aunt,  or,  still  worse,  the  jealous  intrusion 
of  a  rival  queen. 


The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved.      123 

The  court-yard  of  Mme.  Ledru's  house  presented  a 
far  more  lively  appearance  than  the  street  in  which  it 
stood.  In  the  centre  of  the  court  stood  a  large,  um- 
brageous tree,  drooping  over  a  stone  watering-trough, 
which  gave  drink  to  the  numerous  horses  in  the  stable- 
yard  as  well  as  to  the  chickens  and  barn-yard  fowls, 
who  cackled  and  prowled  about  in  its  vicinity,  as  they 
picked  up  their  precarious  living.  At  times  their  forag- 
ing-ground  would  be  enriched  by  a  shower  of  crumbs 
from  a  friendly  window  above,  and  rumor  asserted  that 
the  gallant  Colonel  Victor  de  Villeport,  hero  of  many 
campaigns,  with  the  prestige  of  a  wound  or  two,  and  a 
compensating  glitter  of  decorations,  had  so  far  aban- 
doned himself  to  the  pastime  of  chicken-feeding  as  to 
invent  new  methods  of  beguiling  the  monotony  of  the 
entertainment, —  such  as  tying  morsels  of  bread  to  a 
string  and  dancing  it  distractedly  before  the  eyes  of 
stupid  clucking  hens,  until  experience  had  taught 
them  in  a  measure  how  to  cope  with  this  unexpected 
phase  of  their  trying  existence.  The  stable-yard,  ex- 
tending to  the  left  of  the  court,  was  gay  with  the  bright 
military  caps  of  orderlies,  who  sang  snatches  of  vaude- 
ville airs,  as  they  rubbed  down  their  masters'  steeds, 
and  polished  up  their  sabres  and  buckles. 

But  to  return  to  Mile.  Lisa,  who  sat  knitting  and 
singing  in  the  Porte  Cochfere  of  No.  29,  on  a  warm  sum- 
mer afternoon.  Her  joyous  refrain  ceased,  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  she  heard  the  little  gate  opposite  to  the  house, 
belonging  to  the  Countess  d'Hivry's  garden,  creak  on 


124      The  Man  •whose  Life  was  Saved. 

its  hinges,  and  the  next  instant  saw  protruding  the 
round,  red  head  of  Francois,  the  gardener.  This  appa- 
rition, though  not  itself  enchanting,  gave  Mile.  Lisa,  on 
this  occasion,  the  liveliest  satisfaction. 

"  Good-morning,  Monsieur  FraiiQois,"  she  said,  with  a 
beaming  smile,  as  she  glanced  furtively  at  the  bouquet 
of  flowers  which  was  in  his  hand.  However  dull  might 
be  the  instincts  of  Fra^ois  in  many  things,  they  were 
keen  enough  where  Lisa  was  concerned;  and,  recogniz- 
ing at  once  the  advantages  of  the  situation,  he  advanced 
with  a  profusion  of  bows,  and  a  grin  of  ecstasy,  to  de- 
posit his  tribute  of  flowers  at  the  feet  of  his  adorata. 

"  What  beautiful  taste  you  have  in  flowers,  Monsieur 
Francois,"  said  Lisa,  with  a  perceptible  elevation  of 
voice,  and  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  stone  trough  in 
the  court-yard,  whereat  Ulysse,  the  orderly  of  Colonel 
de  Villefort,  was  watering  his  master's  horse.  Mme.  la 
Contesse  d'Hivry  says  that  she  could  never  give  a  din- 
ner-party without  you  to  arrange  flowers  for  the  Jar- 
dinieres, and  to  furnish  all  that  lovely  fruit  for  dessert, 
which  you  grow  in  the  glass-houses. 

"  As  to  that,"  replied  Francois,  drawing  himself  up, 
and  assuming  an  attitude  of  professional  dignity,  which 
had  momentarily  yielded  to  the  all-absorbing  power  of 
Lisa's  presence,  "  as  to  that,  mademoiselle,  I  can  say, 
without  boasting,  that  the  yellow  roses  and  tulips  of  the 
Jardin  du  Roi  would  never  be  known  for  tulips  and 
roses  alongside  of  mine;  though  for  red  and  white  roses 
I  will  not  say  so  much,  and  the  pears  — 


The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved.      125 

"  O  mademoiselle  !  how  lovely  you  are  with  those 
flowers  in  your  hair  !  "  cried  out  the  enamored  gardener, 
once  more  forgetful  of  his  life-long  enthusiasm,  the  pears 
and  roses,  and  only  mindful  of  the  unexpected  form  of 
female  seduction  offered  to  his  distracted  gaze.  "  I 
never  knew  that  roses  could  be  so  beautiful,"  he  added, 
with  a  genuineness  which  would  have  touched  any  being 
less  merciless  than  a  girl  of  eighteen,  bent  on  piquing  a 
more  indifferent  admirer  into  something  like  jealousy. 

"  It  is  your  roses,"  said  Lisa,  laughing,  "  that  make 
me,  what  you  call  lovely.  I  don't  make  the  roses.  But 
what  have  you  peeping  out  of  your  pocket  ?  "  she  in- 
quired, fearing  that  the  conversation  was  about  to  as- 
sume a  more  tender  character  than  she  desired;  "  a  note 
I  should  think  "  — 

"  Ah,  yes  !  I  had  forgotten,"  said  poor  Francois,  with 
a  sigh  over  his  own  hopeless  perturbation.  It  is  from 
Mme.  la  Contesse  to  the  Colonel  de  Villefort,  and  it 
was  to  be  given  without  delay." 

"  Ulysse,  Ulysse,"  cried  Lisa,  gladly  availing  herself 
of  this  welcome  diversion,  "  here  is  a  note  for  you." 

"  Do  you  not  see,  mademoiselle,"  said  Ulysee,  pettish- 
ly, not  entirely  pleased  with  Fra^ois  and  his  flowers, 
"  do  you  not  see  that  I  am  watering  the  colonel's  horse  ? 
I  should  think,  too,  that  the  bearer  of  a  note  might  de- 
liver it  himself." 

Franqois,  with  a  soothing  sense  of  present  preferment, 
was  about  to  make  a  good-natured  reply,  when  the  col- 


126       The  Man  -whose  Life  was  Saved. 

loquy  was  terminated  by  a  sonorous  voice  from  an. 
upper  window  shouting,  "  Ulysse  !  " 

"  Mon  colonel." 

"Saddle  one  of  my  horses  immediately." 

"  Impossible  to  use  either  to-day,  mon  colonel;  one 
limps,  and  I  have  taken  Mars  to  the  blacksmith's,  for  he 
cast  a  shoe  this  morning." 

"  Sapeisti  I  "What  am  I  to  ride  then  ?  There  is  the 
horse  of  Monsieur  le  Baron  always  at  our  service.  He 
is  a  nasty,  stumbling  thing,  but  if  it  is  very  pressing  "  — 

Victor  de  Villefort  looked  irresolutely  out  of  the 
window,  and  twirled  his  blonde  mustache.  He  was  a 
man  between  thirty  and  forty  perhaps,  distingue  in  man- 
ner and  bearing,  and  gifted  with  a  charming  sympa- 
thetic voice.' 

"Here  is  a  note  for  you,  mon  colonel"  said  Lisa, 
glancing  reproachfully  at  Ulysse,  as  she  tripped  lightly 
across  the  court-yard,  and  passing  the  corridor  of  red 
brick,  mounted  two  flights  of  narrow  wooden  stairs  to 
the  colonel's  room. 

"  Thank  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  Victor,  courteously, 
as  he  took  the  note.  "  Ulysse  shall  stay  with  me  always 
if  you  say  so.  Do  the  roses  worn  so  gracefully  on  the 
left  side  of  the  head,  indicate  consent  ?  " 

"  I  wear  the  roses  for  the  sake  of  FranQois,  the  gar- 
dener of  Madame  la  Contesse  d'Hivry,  who  brings  them 
to  me." 

"  Ah  !  I  am  always  allowing  myself  to  be  taken  by  sur- 
prise, Lisa,"  said  Victor,  opening  his  note  and  glancing 
over  its  contents. .  "  I  never  keep  pace  with  fickleness." 


The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved.      127 

"But  is  it  fickleness,  mo^t  colonel,  to  like  what  be- 
longs to  the  Contesse  d'Hivry  ?  "  inquired  Lisa,  low- 
ering her  eyes  with  assumed  naivete. 

"JFor  you,  yes.  I  should  say  that  it  was.  But  I 
dare  say,  with  your  little  malicious  airs,  mademoiselle, 
you  mean  more  than  that.  But  I  advise  you  to  wear 
roses  on  the  right  side  for  Ulysse,  and  then  tell  him  that 
he  must  never  leave  me;  and  he  shall  not,  I  give  you  my 
word,"  said  Victor,  gayly,  taking  up  his  hat  and  gloves 
and  moving  to  the  door.  "  What  a  lucky  thing,"  he  * 
continued  to  himself  as  he  descended  the  stair-case, 
"  that  the  charming  countess  only  asks  for  a  pedestrian 
cavalier  !  If  she  had  asked  for  a  mounted  escort,  I 
should  have  been  forced  to  have  recourse  to  this  tire- 
some baron  here,"  and  Victor  brushed  lightly  against 
the  door  of  a  fellow-lodger,  "  to  have  used  his  stumbling 
horse,  and  then  to  have  been  bored  for  the  rest  of  my 
life,  or  of  his  life,  about  helping  him  to  the  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor." 

The  baron  in  question  was  a  retired  militaire,  who, 
inspired  with  an  insatiable  thirst  for  fame,  was  writing 
a  military  history  of  France.  His  chief  claims  to  notice 
appeared  to  be  the  possession  of  a  stumbling  horse,  and 
an  overwhelming  greed  of  decorations. 

As  Victor  mused  over  the  consequences  of  an  incau- 
tious acceptance  of  the  baron's  steed,  and  over  the  base 
intrigues  in  which  a  pursuit  of  the  coveted  cross  might 
involve  him,  his  brow  darkened,  and  his  step  grew 
heavier. 


128      The  Man  -whose  Life  was  Saved. 


II. 


THE  drawing-room  of  the  Contesse  d'Hivry  was  a 
comfortable,  social-looking  apartment,  though  with  too 
great  abandon  in  the  matter  of  furniture  and  decora- 
tions, to  claim  to  be  a  model  of  any  particular  epoch. 
The  well-polished  floors  and  numerous  mirrors  re- 
flected back  the  sun's  rays,  which  sometimes  penetrated 
through  the  fragrant  vines  shading  the  windows. 
Bright  oriental  rugs  were  at  the  feet  of  yellow  damask 
ottomans,  and  the  etageres  and  tables  were  covered  with 
rare  bronzes,  costly  bits  of  porcelain,  alabaster,  and  gob- 
lets of  crystal.  But  the  appointments  of  the  room 
seemed  never  so  complete  as  when  the  countess  herself 
was  seated  in  the  embrasure  of  one  of  the  windows,  as 
she  was  on  this  occasion,  working  at  her  embroidery  or 
her  aquarelles.  Mathilde  d'Hivry  enjoyed  the  de- 
served reputation  of  being  irresistibly  charming.  She 
was  Clothing  in  excess.  She  was  not  very  young,  nor 
very  rich,  nor  very  handsome,  nor  very  clever.  But  she 
was  exactly  what  every  one  desired  that  she  should  be 
at  the  moment.  !N"o  one  could  precisely  define  why 
they  left  her  presence  in  a  complacent  mood  and  in  a 


The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved.      129 

friendly  attitude  towards  the  whole  human  race.  Such 
being  the  case,  however,  her  society  was  naturally 
sought  for,  and  reluctantly  abandoned.  As  the  count- 
ess sat  this  afternoon,  listlessly  and  idly  before  her 
aquarelles,  quite  disinclined  for  work,  and  leaning  her 
little  head  with  its  great  coils  of  black  braids  wearily  on 
her  hands,  her  eyes  rested  mechanically  on  a  miniature 
likeness  near  her.  The  miniature  was  that  of  a  young 
man,  well-featured,  well  dressed,  well  /me',  and  well- 
painted.  Under  the  sober  tint  of  the  beard  and  hair 
was  the  suggestion  of  a  more  fiery  hue,  —  the  red  of  the 
ancient  Gaul, — just  as  in  the  mild  brown  eyes  lurked 
the  possibility  of  a  flash  of  "/ima  Francese,"  the  savage 
ferocity  which  centuries  of  civilization  and  good  man- 
ners have  only  smothered  in  the  modern  Frenchman, 
and  which  shows  itself  any  day  in  the  blouses,  as  it 
might  in  the  time  of  Charlemagne,  in  spite  of  their 
surroundings  of  millinery,  cookery,  hair-dressing,  and 
the  art  of  dancing.  These  reflections,  however,  were 
not  in  the  least  the  source  of  Mathilde's  preoccupation. 
After  a  prolonged  contemplation  of  the  young  gentle- 
man's miniature,  she  exclaimed  petulantly,  "  Why  should 
my  aunt  and  uncle  urge  me  to  marry  again,  especially 
Armand  ?  "  always  regarding  the  brown  eyes  of  the 
miniature.  "  He  looks  mild  enough  there  on  ivory. 
But  I  can  imagine  him  clothed  with  the  authority  of  a 
husband,  making  scenes  of  jealousy,  interfering,  dictat- 
ing, and  being  quite  insupportable.  I  like  him  too  well 

to  expose  him  to  such  temptations.    "We  are  much  bet- 
12 


130      The  Man  -whose  Life  was  Saved. 

ter  as  we  are.  There  is  De  Villefort.  He  is  more  solid, 
and  more  simple  in  character,  but  terribly  in  earnest,  I 
should  say.  And  they  say  he  will  never  marry.  Some 
disappointment  in  the  past,  or  some  hope  for  the  future 
will  keep  him  as  he  is,  —  so  they  say,  at  least ; "  and  she 
fell  into  another  revery,  which  was  finally  interrupted 
by  a  servant  announcing  the  Colonel  de  Villefort. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad  that  you  could  come  to-day,"  said 
the  countess,  resuming  her  wonted  gayety.  "Do  you 
share  my  wish  for  a  stroll  in  the  park  this  afternoon, 
whilst  the  band  is  playing  ?  " 

"  I  always  share  your  wishes,  dear  countess,  and  am 
too  happy  when  I  may  share  your  pleasures." 

"  That  is  almost  a  compliment,  I  should  say,  and  you 
think  yourself  incapable  of  paying  one.  "Why  do  you 
never  pay  compliments  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  will,  in  return,  tell  me  why  the 
portrait  of  Monsieur  Armand  is  always  so  near  your 
favorite  seat." 

"  The  reason  is,  I  suppose,"  said  the  countess,  laugh- 
ing, "  that  I  am  so  used  to  it,  that  I  am  quite  unconscious 
whether  it  is  there  or  not." 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you  why  I  rarely  pay  you  compli- 
ments,—  because  I  like  you  too  well." 

"  So  you  can  only  compliment  those  whom  you  dis- 
like ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  those  to  whom  I  am  indifferent." 

"But  Colonel  de  Villefort,"  exclaimed  the  countess, 
gravely  tying  on  her  white  bonnet  before  the  mirror 


The  Man  -whose  Life  was  Saved.      131 

and  observing,  with  satisfaction,  that  the  soft  white  lace 
brought  out  the  lustre  of  her  rich  hair  and  her  clear 
gray  eyes,  "  do  you  know  that  public  opinion  decides 
that  you  will  never  marry  ?  " 

"Public  opinion,  perhaps,  is  wise  en«ugh  to  decide, 
because  I  never  have  married,  that  I  never  shall,"  re- 
plied De  Villefort,  offering  his  arm  to  the  countess  as 
they  passed  through  the  door. 

"  There  is  certainly  a  reason  for  such  a  supposition  in 
your  case,  —  for  you  have  had  inducements  to  marry." 
The  colonel  was  grave  and  thoughtful,  and,  for  a  few 
moments,  they  walked  on  in  silence  until  the  sound  of 
music  roused  him  from  a  revery  which  Mathilde  cared 
not  to  disturb.  "  We  are  in  the  park  now,"  he  said,  at 
last,  and  almost  in  the  midst  of  '  public  opinion,' "  he 
added  laughing;  "but,  after  the  music,  if  you  are  not 
too  tired  for  a  stroll  in  the  Jardin  du  Koi,  I  will  tell  you 
some  incidents  of  my  early  life,  and  you  shall  judge 
whether  I  can  marry." 

"  Oh  !  thank  you,"  said  the  countess,  eagerly  and 
gratefully,  more  with  her  eyes  than  her  voice,  for  the 
latter  was  quite  lost  in  a  blast  of  Eoland  a  Koncevaux 
from  the  trumpets  of  one  of  the  imperial  bands.  The . 
afternoon  being  warm,  the  band  was  ranged  in  a  circle 
under  the  protecting  shade  of  the  great,  careless  old 
trees ;  but  the  sun's  rays  penetrated  here  and  there 
through  their  branches,  throwing  a  golden  light  on  the 
curls  of  rosy  children  frolicking  on  the  green  grass, 
casting  an  aureole  of  glory  around  the  heads  of  gray- 


132       The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved. 

haired  old  men,  and  glittering  in  the  epaulets  of  flighty 
young  officers.  There  were  knots  of  people  grouped 
about  in  every  direction,  —  French  girls,  by  the  side  of 
their  chaperons,  immersed  in  needle- work;  imperious 
English  misses  staring  haughtily  at  the  officers;  ladies 
of  opulent  financial  circles,  in  striking  toilets  of  the 
last  mode,  fresh  from  Paris,  and  a  few  relics  of  the 
"  Andenne  Noblesse"  plainly  attired,  and  looking  curi- 
ously and,  perhaps,  disdainfully  from  their  small  exclu- 
sive coterie,  at  all  this  bourgeois  splendor.  Old  women 
with  weather-beaten,  parchment  faces,  under  neat  frilled 
caps,  were  possibly  retrieving,  in  their  old  age,  the  errors 
of  a  stormy  youth,  by  carrying  on  the  "  Service  des 
chaises"  Others  were  plying  a  brisk  trade  among  the 
children  by  the  sale  of  cakes,  plaisirs,  and  parlor  bal- 
loons. 

Joining  a  group  of  acquaintances,  Victor  fastidiously 
placed  Mathilde's  chair  in  a  position  sheltered  from  in- 
convenient sunlight,  in  proper  proximity  to  the  music, 
and  where  no  dust  could  tarnish  the  hem  of  her  floating 
immaculate  robe.  In  these  commonplace  "petits  soins" 
common  enough  in  the  life  of  any  woman  of  society, 
Mathilde  recognized  a  spirit  of  sincere  devotion  and 
protecting  affection,  which  gave  her,  at  the  same  time,  a 
thrill  of  joy,  and  an  undefined  sense  of  apprehension 
and  lingering  regret.  The  Contesse  d'Hivry  passed, 
in  the  world's  estimation,  as  a  model  of  happiness,  and, 
in  one  sense,  she  was  happy.  Gifted  with  health,  a 
kindly,  joyous  nature,  a  due  share  of  worldly  advan- 


The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved.      133 

tages,  and  an  easy  philosophy  which  enabled  her  to 
accept  cheerfully  all  daily  cares  and  petty  vexations,  she 
was  to  be  envied.  But  she  had,  as  we  all  have,  her  own 
particular  demon,  who  was  fond  of  drawing  aside  a  dark, 
impenetrable  curtain,  and  showing  her,  in  a  vision  of  ex- 
ceeding loveliness,  the  might-have-beens,  and  the  might- 
be,  of  this  deceptive  life,  and  just  as  she  would  rush 
forward  tojseize  on  these  delicious  illusions,  they  would 
straightway  vanish,  leaving  her  to  stare  once  more 
hopelessly  at  the  same  dark,  impenetrable  curtain.  As 
the  countess  looked  out  beyond  the  great  trees  at  the 
velvet  sward  of  the  Tapis  Vert,  at  the  orange-shrubs  in 
their  green  boxes,  at  the  rows  of  antique  statues  on  their 
solitary  perches,  leading  to  the  great  fountain,  and  then 
the  broad  massive  steps  leading  at  last  to  the  distant 
chateau,  she  wondered  whether  the  little  demon  of  "  le 
grand  Monarque"  who  had  cooked  in  his  majesty's 
behalf  so  many  pleasant  scenes,  had  ever  the  audacity 
to  drop,  unbidden,  the  dark  curtain  before  his  royal  eyes. 
Whatever  had  been  done,  or  left  undone,  in  the  case  of 
"  le  grand  Monarque"  the  demon  had  conjured  up  spec- 
tacles for  some  of  his  successors,  which  had  not  been  so 
pleasant.  It  had  not  been  the  fate  of  all  to  look  from 
their  bed  of  state,  with  dying  eyes,  on  the  finer  alleys, 
the  shining  lake,  and  the  peaceful  grandeur  of  the  royal 
grounds.  The  curtain  had  been  drawn  once  for  a  sleep- 
ing queen,  and  had  revealed  so  dreadful  a  picture,  that 
she  had  fled  from  her  bed  at  midnight  to  escape  it.  The 
demon,  wearied  with  the  eternal  scene  of  the  marquis 
12* 


134       The  Man  -whose  Life  -was  Saved. 

and  marquise,  in  powder  and  high  heels,  bowing  and 
mincing  before  their  Great  King,  had  chosen  to  vary  his 
pleasures  by  calling  up  the  old  forgotten  Gaul,  with  his 
red  beard  and  his  ferocious  eye,  to  storm  and  rage  at 
the  chateau  gates. 

Mathilde  had  wandered  so  far  away  with  her  demon 
and  his  pictures,  that  she  was  astonished,  in  turning  her 
eyes,  to  find  Victor  gazing  at  her  with  a  lookt>f  troubled 
inquiry.  The  music  had  changed  its  character,  and  the 
triumphal  strains  of  Roland  &  Roncevaux  had  given 
place  to  a  plaintive  melody  of  the  Favorita,  and  Ma- 
thilde, glad  to  know  her  secret  thoughts  thus  interrogated 
by  Victor,  threw  them  aside  and  became  once  more 'the 
gay  and  talkative  Contesse  d'Hivry. 

"  How  gay  you  are  now,"  said  Victor,  addressing  the 
countess,  just  as  the  last  strains  of  the  Favorita  had 
died  away,  "  when  I  am  quite  the  reverse.  I  never  can 
listen  to  that  duo  without  feeling  its  meaning,  —  from 
association,  perhaps ;  for  it  is  connected  with  a  happy  and 
still  painful  part  of  my  life.  Shall  we  walk  now  ? " 
said  Victor,  as  the  countess  made  her  adieus  to  her 
friends,  and,  taking  his  arm,  they  sauntered  away  to  the 
Jardin  du  Roi. 

"  You  sang  that  duo  once,"  said  Mathilde,  half-inquir- 
ingly,  "  and  I  know  more  than  you  think  of  your  past 
life,  for  I  will  tell  you  with  whom  ?  " 

"  You  knew  her,  then  ?  "  asked  Victor. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  Pauline  D'Arblay,  slightly,  but  I  have 
never  seen  her  since  her  marriage,  as  Pauline  Dusantoy." 


The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved.      135 

"  She  is  quite  unchanged,  at  least  she  was  when  I  last 
saw  her,  some  years  ago,  and  I  think  that  she  can  never 
change,"  said  Victor,  enthusiastically.  "  She  must  al- 
ways be  beautiful,  as  she  is  good,  and  her  native  purity, 
I  believe,  must  always  resist  the  attacks  of  the  world, 
and  leave  her  unscathed  from  contamination." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  "  asked  the  countess,  after  a  few 
moments  of  silence;  for  in  proportion  to  the  warmth 
evinced  by  Victor  in  recalling  these  memories  of  the 
past,  his  companion  was  chilled  into  quiet  reflections. 

"  In  Algiers,  I  suppose,"  replied  Victor,  "  where  her 
husband,  General  Dusantoy,  has  been  for  years  past." 

"  My  enthusiasm  for  Pauline  is  only  surpassed  by  my 
affection  and  reverence  for  her  husband.  I  have  known 
Dusantoy  and  have  loved  him  from  my  earliest  child- 
hood, and  have  received  from  him  more  proofs  of  unde- 
viating  friendship  and  unwearied  devotion  than  I  can 
ever  repay.  He  has  saved  my  life,  too,  though  he  un- 
wittingly took  from  me,  what  I  believed  at  that  time  to 
be  all  that  made  life  desirable,"  said  Victor  sadly,  as 
they  approached  the  palings  of  the  Jardin  Du  Koi, 
through  which  the  red  and  yellow  roses  and  peonies, 
confident  in  their  gorgeousness,  were  nodding  their  heads 
insolently  at  the  gens  d'arme,  who  paced  listlessly  be- 
fore the  gate.  The  verbenas  and  pansies,  equally  bril- 
liant but  less  flaunting,  were  dotted  about  in  compact 
groups  in  the  parterres  and  on  the  lawn.  The  statue, 
surmounting  the  column  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn, 
blackened  and  defaced  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  years, 


136       The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved. 

looked  down  grimly  from  its  pedestal,  as  if  to  impose 
silence  on  all  beneath.  So  that  the  jardin,  in  its  abso- 
lute repose,  found  little  favor  in  the  eyes  of  children  and 
nurses,  who  respectively  chose  for  their  gambols  and 
Iheir  flirtations  some  more  joyous  and  expansive  locali- 
ty. Its  sole  occupants  on  this  occasion  were  an  elderly 
priest,  too  much  absorbed  in  his  breviary  to  be  con- 
scious of  the  rustling  of  Mathilde's  dress  as  she  passed 
him,  together  with  a  pensive  soldier,  who  possibly 
sought  diversion  from  the  pangs  of  unrequited  affec- 
tion by  tracing  with  a  penknife,  on  the  stone  bench 
which  he  occupied,  an  accurate  outline  of  his  sword. 

"You  knew  Pauline  d'Arblay  as  a  child,"  said  the 
countess  to  Victor,  as  they  seated  themselves  on  a  bench 
at  the  extremity  of  the  lawn. 

"  Yes,  we  were  brought  up  together,  —  that  is,  our 
families  were  very  intimate.  She  was  the  only  child  of 
her  parents,  and  I  was  the  youngest  of  a  large  family ; 
but  as  my  brothers  and  sisters  were  much  older  than 
myself,  and  Pauline  was  nearer  my  age,  we  were  always 
together,  and,  until  I  was  sent  to  college,  she  was  my 
constant  playmate." 

"  You  must  regard  her  as  a  sister,  then,"  said  Ma- 
thilde.  "  Remembrances  of  childish  intimacy  and  sou- 
venirs of  soiled  pinafores  and  soiled  faces,  I  should  think, 
would  always  be  destructive  of  romance." 

"  It  might  be  so,  if  the  transformation  of  later  years 
did  not  suggest  other  sentiments,  —  sentiments  which, 
unhappily  for  us,  were  only  understood  when  too  late 


The  Man  whose  Life  ~uas  Saved.      137 

for  our  mutual  happiness.  I  had  scarcely  seen  Pauline 
since  our  days  of  hidte-and-seek  in  the  chateau  grounds, 
until  I  finished  my  course  at  St.  Cyr,  and  returned  a 
sub-lieutenant,  to  find  that  Pauline,  the-  child  of  the 
pinafore,  as  you  say,  had  expanded  into  a  lovely  and 
lovable  girl.  At  that  age,  however,  I  believe  that  few 
can  experience  a  serious  passion.  Curiosity  and  inexpe- 
rience of  life  prevent  concentration  on  any  one  object, 
and  make  us  incapable  of  estimating  things  at  their 
proper  value.  At  college,  too,  I  had  formed  a  romantic 
friendship  for  one  of  my  classmates,  —  Dusantoy, — and 
the  ardor  of  this  sentiment  occupied  me  entirely,  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  others.  Dusantoy  had  a  rich  uncle,  who 
had  purchased  a  large  estate  in  the  vicinity  of  our  cha- 
teaux. He  came  to  visit  his  uncle,  but  passed  his  time 
naturally  with  me.  Pauline  shared  our  walks  and  our 
drives.  "We  read  to  her  as  she  embroidered  or  sewed, 
and  she  sang  to  us  in  the  summer  twilight.  "We  were 
very  gay  and  insouciant  in  those  days,  little  dreaming 
that  our  innocent  affection  would  give  place  to  a  mad 
passion,  that  would  one  day  separate  us  eternally,  and 
fill  our  lives  with  unsatisfied  longings.  It  was  not  until 
some  time  after,  that  a  winter  passed  by  us  both  in  the 
gay  world  of  Paris  revealed  to  me  the  nature  of  my 
love  for  Pauline.  A  jealous  fear  took  possession  of  me. 
Seeing  her  the  object  of  universal  homage  and  admira- 
tion induced  me  to  declare  my  love.  She  had  already 
discarded  wealthy  and  brilliant  suitors;  and  for  my 
Bake.  But,  alas  !  I  was  the  cadet  of  the  family,  with 


138       The  Man  -whose  Life  ?vas  Saved. 

only  a  good  name,  my  sword,  et  voila  tout  I "  Pauline's 
mamma  was  more  prudent  than  her  daughter  and  my- 
self. Circumstances  favored  her,  and  separated  us.  I 
was  ordered,  to  Africa,  and  Pauline  returned  to  the  cha- 
teau; but  we  parted  hopefully  and  confidently,  vowing 
eternal  constancy.  When  we  next  met,  she  was  the 
wife  of  another  man,  and  that  man  was  my  best  friend, 
Dusantoy. 

"  J/on  pauvre  ami,''''  said  Mathilde,  almost  inaudibly, 
and  her  hand  unconsciously  rested  on  his.  He  pressed 
it  to  his  lips,  and  they  were  both  silent.  Victor's 
wound  was  deep  as  ever;  but  the  poignancy  of  such  a 
grief  is  already  much  diminished  when  the  consoling 
voice  of  another  woman  and  the  pressure  of  her  hand 
can  soothe  for  an  instant  the  anguish  of  the  past, 

"  You  know,  dear  Mathilde,"  continued  Victor,  "  the 
history  of  Pauline's  misfortunes,  —  the  sudden  death  of 
her  parents,  her  father's  embarrassments  and  insolvency, 
and  how  on  his  death-bed  he  implored  his  only  child  to 
save  the  honor  of  his  name  by  accepting  the  hand  of  a 
man  in  every  way  worthy  of  her,  and  who,  at  his  uncle's 
recent  death,  had  come  into  possession  of  an  immense 
fortune,  a  portion  of  a  Conte  d'Arblay's  forfeited  es- 
tate. I  was  in  Africa  when  the  news  came  to  me  that 
Pauline  was  affianced  to  Dusantoy.  But  I  heard  it 
without  a  murmur;  for  I  heard  it  from  Dusantoy 's  own 
lips.  He  had  been  sent  to  Algiers  on  an  important 
mission,  and  came  to  confide  in  me  in  all  the  rapture 
and  ecstasy  of  his  love.  Nothing  makes  one  so  self- 


The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved.       139 

ish  and  inconsiderate  as  an  absorbing  happiness.  Be- 
sides, poor  Dusantoy  believed  my  love  for  Pauline  to 
be  purely  fraternal.  In  my  grief  and  despair,  I  believed 
once  that  I  must  tell  him  that  he  was  robbing  me  of  my 
sole  treasure  and  hope  in  life;  but,  fortunately  for  him, 
—  for  us  both,  perhaps,  for  I  should  never  have  ceased 
to  repent  such  an  act  of  cowardice,  —  I  was  seized  with 
brain  fever,  and  for  some  time  my  life  was  despaired 
of.  Meanwhile,  Dusantoy,  with  characteristic  devotion, 
postponed  his  return  to  France  and  to  Pauline,  that  he 
might  watch  over  me;  and  to  his  untiring  assiduity  and 
unceasing  care  I  undoubtedly  owe  my  recovery.  But 
that  is  not  all.  Another  accident  befell  me,  which 
would  unquestionably  have  proved  fatal  to  my  exis- 
tence had  not  the  skill  and  courage  of  Dusantoy  again 
interposed  to  save  me.  At  the  beginning  of  my  conva- 
lescence, when  I  was  first  able  to  walk  a  few  steps  in 
the  open  air,  I  was  one  day  pacing  the  court-yard  of 
the  house  where  I  lodged,  when  a  low,  suppressed  roar 
struck  my  ear,  and  turning  my  head,  I  saw  that  a  large 
lion  had  entered  the  open  door-way,  and  was  standing 
within  a  few  paces  of  me.  My  first  emotion  was  not 
that  of  terror,  —  not  the  same  which  I  see  on  your  face 
at  this  moment,  chere  contesse,"  said  Victor,  laughing  ; 
"  for  I  recognized  the  animal  as  a  tame,  well-conducted 
lion  belonging  to  a  gentleman  living  in  the  outskirts  of 
the  city,  and  was  about  to  approach  him,  when  the  sight 
of  blood  trickling  from  a  wound  in  his  side,  and  the 
menacing  look  of  his  eye,  warned  me  to  retreat.  Es- 


140       The  Man  -whose  Life  was  Saved. 

cape  by  the  outer  door  was  impossible,  as  well  as  en- 
trance to  the  house,  for  the  lion  barred  the  passage 
which  led  to  both  doors;  but  I  thought  of  a  gate  lead- 
ing to  a  side  street,  which  was  now  my  only  means  of 
flight,  "With  feeble,  tottering  steps  I  had  gained  this 
point,  and  in  another  instant  should  have  made  my  es- 
cape; but,  by  a  singular  fatality,  the  gate  was  bolted. 
I  had  neither  strength  to  force  it  nor  agility  to  scale  the 
wall.  The  lion,  irritated  by  his  wound,  and  excited,  as  I 
found  afterwards,  by  previous  pursuit,  followed  me  with 
another  ominous  roar  and  a  look  of  hostility  far  from 
encouraging  to  one  in  my  position. 

"  Of  all  that  followed  I  have  but  a  confused  idea.  I 
was  weak  aud  ill,  —  my  brain  reeled ;  but  I  remember 
that,  as  the  lion  was  about  to  spring,  a  violent  blow 
made  him  turn  with  a  snarl  of  rage,  and  spring  towards 
a  new  adversary,  —  Dusantoy, — who  stood,  gun  in  hand, 
in  the  centre  of  the  court-yard.  Then  the  report  of  a 
fire-arm,  and  I  can  recall  nothing  further.  Dusantoy 
was  an  admirable  shot,  took  cool  aim,  and  hit  the  lion 
in  the  heart.  Pauline  and  I  fancied  that  we  felt  the 
recoil  of  the  weapon  in  our  own  hearts  for  many  a  long 
clay  afterwards.  But  perhaps  it  was  mere  fancy,"  said 
Victor,  lightly,  as  he  watched  the  cheek  of  the  countess 
growing  paler  as  he  spoke. 

"  To  end  my  long  story,"  continued  Victor,  "  after 
these  experiences  I  took  a  voyage  to  reestablish  my 
health;  and,  when  I  returned,  I  spent  a  week  in  the 
same  house  with  General  Dusantoy  and  his  wife.  It 


The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved.      141 

was  heroic  on  iny  part;  but  I  could  stay  no  longer,  and  1 
have  never  seen  thern  since.  And  now  you  understand, 
chere  contesse,  why  I  have  never  married." 

"  I  understand  for  the  past  ?  Yes,"  said  Mathilde, 
rising  from  her  seat;  "but  the  future"  —  her  sentence 
terminated  in  a  shrug. 

The  last  rays  of  sunlight  were  gilding  the  head  of  the 
statue  on  the  lawn;  the  priest  had  closed  his  book,  and, 
with  the  swift,  noiseless  tread  of  his  order,  had  glided 
from  the  garden;  the  melancholy  soldier  had  girded  his 
s \vord  about  him,  after  leaving  its-dimensions  gracefully 
reproduced  on  the  bench  where  he  sat,  and  had  followed 
the  priest;  the  evening  air  was  damp  and  chill,  and  Vic- 
tor drew  Mathilde's  shawl  around  her  with  tender  care. 

"  You  are  tired,  dear  Mathilde,"  said  Victor.  "  You 
are  pale;  I  have  wearied  you  with  my  long  stories, 
Appuyez  vous  5ien  sur  raoi,"  and  he  drew  her  arm 
through  his,  as  they  turned  their  steps  homeward. 

"  Ydu  have  made  me  so  happy  to-day !  "  said  Victor, 
as  they  approached  the  house  of  the  countess.  "  Will 
you  give  me  some  souvenir  of  this  afternoon,  —  the 
ribbon  that  you  wear  ?  " 

"  We  will  make  an  exchange  then,"  said  Mathilde, 
laughingly,  as  she  handed  the  ribbon.  "  I  will  give  a 
ribbon  for  the  flowers  in  your  button-hole;  and  we  will 
see  who  is  most  true  to  their  colors." 

A  passionate  pressure  of  the  hand  and  a  lingering 
kiss  on  Mathilde's  primrose  gloves  were  the  only  reply, 
and  they  parted.  The  delicate  odor  of  the  primrose 
13 


142       The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved. 

gloves  lingered  with  Victor,  as  he  sauntered  homeward 
in  the  dim  twilight.  The  earnest,  almost  appealing, 
look  of  Mathilde,  as  he  parted  from  her,  haunted  him. 

"  Could  I  ever  forget  and  be  happy  ?  "  he  asked  of 
himself.  The  very  idea  seemed  to  him  an  unpardonable 
infidelity,  —  a  culpable  forgetfulness  of  past  memories, 
which  lowered  him  in  his  own  estimation.  At  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Hue  Arc  en  Ciel  he  encountered  Mile.  Lisa, 
hanging  contentedly  on  the  arm  of  Ulysse.  Poor 
Francois  and  his  flowers  were  forgotten  at  that  mo- 
ment, and  Lisa  had  abandoned  herself  to  the  delights  of 
allaying  a  jealousy  successfully  roused  in  the  heart  of 
the  gallant  Ulysse  by  her  recent  tactics. 

" Mon  colonel"  said  Ulysse,  " a  lady  has  called  twice 
to  see  you  in  your  absence.  The  last  time  she  waited 
a  long  while  in  your  room,  and  finally  left  a  note, 
which  she  said  was  important  and  must  be  handed  to 
you  at  once." 

"  A  lady  !  Who  can  it  be  ?  My  venerable  maiden 
aunt,  I  suppose,"  said  Victor,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
"  who  has  lost  her  vicious,  snarling  poodle,  —  a  wretched 
brute  that  always  bites  my  legs,  when  I  dare  to  venture 
them  in  my  aunt's  snuff-colored  saloon,  and  that  I  am 
expected  to  find  for  her  now,  by  virtue  of  my  name  of 
Villefort." 

"The  lady  is  young,  handsome,  and  in  widow's 
weeds,"  said  Ulysse,  half  in  reply  to  his  colonel's  mut- 
tered soliloquy,  as  he  ran  before  him  and  vanished 
into  the  court-yard  of  No.  29,  in  search  of  the  note. 


The  Man  -whose  Life  was  Saved.       143 

The  twilight  deepened  and  thickened  on  the  silent  lit- 
tle street.  The  oil  lamp,  hanging  from  the  rope  at  the 
corner,  was  lighted,  but  its  feeble  rays  only  penetrated  a 
short  distance,  leaving  the  rest  wrapt  in  mystery  and 
gloom,  and  the  gate  opening  from  the  Contesse  d'Hivry's 
garden,  Francois'  portal  of  happiness,  through  which  he 
passed  into  the  blissful  presence  of  his  Lisa,  was  scarce- 
ly discernible.  The  evening  was  clear  and  fine,  how- 
ever, the  stars  were  beginning  to  glimmer  in  the  sky, 
and  a  faint  band  of  light  in  the  east  was  growing  every 
moment  into  glistening  silver,  under  the  rays  of  the  com- 
ing moon. 

After  parting  with  Victor,  Mathilde  entered  the 
salon,  and,  throwing  herself  languidly  into  a  chair,  re- 
called with  feminine  minuteness  the  events  and  conver- 
sation of  the  afternoon,  until  oppressed  with  the  light 
and  warmth  of  the  house,  she  sought  refuge  in  the  cool 
air  of  the  fraZcon,  and,  leaning  on  the  balustrade,  looked 
dreamily  through  the  honeysuckle  vines  at  the  par- 
terres and  lawn  beyond.  The  meditations  of  the  coun- 
tess, however,  were' not  exclusively  romantic,  in  spite 
of  the  languid  grace  of  her  attitude,  and  the  poetic  ab- 
straction of  her  gaze.  She  was  fortifying  herself  against 
an  attack  of  imprudent  tenderness,  by  sternly  picturing 
to  herself  all  the  practical  disadvantages  of  a  marriage 
of  inclination.  Could  she  incur  the  lasting  displeasure 
of  her  aunt  and  uncle  by  marrying  any  one  save  her 
cousin  Armand  ?  Could  she  sacrifice  the  half  of  her 
fortune,  which  was  the  penalty  of  such  a  caprice  of  the 


144       The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved. 

heart,  and  sink  into  comparative  poverty  ?  The  souvenir 
of  a  single  phrase,  however,  in  the  tender  inflection 
of  a  manly  voice,  — "  Appuyez  vous  bien  sur  raoi," 
was  ever  present  to  her  memory  quickening  the  beat- 
ings of  her  heart,  and  bringing  the  warm  blood  to  her 
cheeks.  The  moon  had  risen,  pouring  a  flood  of  sil- 
ver light  over  Francois'  roses,  and  the  pots  of  cactus 
on  the  garden- wall.  The  countess  strolled  into  the  gar- 
den, and,  fancying  that  she  heard  a  whispered  conversa- 
tion proceeding  from  the  little  gate  leading  into  the 
Rue  Arc  en  Ciel,  she  turned  her  footsteps  in  that  direc- 
tion. 

"  Is  that  you,  Lisa  ?  "  asked  the  countess,  rightly  sus- 
pecting that  the  muslin  dress,  fluttering  in  the  moonlight, 
could  belong  to  none  other  than  the  daughter  of  the 
worthy  Mme.  Ledru,  and  that  she  was  about  to  sur- 
prise a  tete-a-tete  between  the  coquettish  Lisa,  and  her 
gardener,  the  enamored  Francois. 

"  Yes,  madame,"  said  Lisa,  "  can  I  be  of  any  ser- 
vice ?  " 

The  countess  shared  poor  Franqois'  partiality  for 
Lisa.  Her  bright  eyes  and  shining  hair  were  pleasant 
to  look  at,  and  her  quick  wit  and  cheerful  voice  made  her 
a  nice  companion,  and  then  she  enjoyed  the  inestimable 
privilege  of  living  in  the  same  house  with  Victor  de 
Villefort.  Perhaps  some  bit  of  intelligence  concerning 
him  would  escape  her,— whatever  it  might  be,  Mathilde 
knew  that  it  would  be  of  thrilling  interest  to  her.  If 
there  was  to  be  a  morning-parade  the  following  day, 


The  Man  -whose  Life  was  Saved.       145 

Mathilde  would  go  to  the  Terrain  de  Manoeuvre,  to 
see  her  hero  "en  grande  tenue"  in  the  staff  of  the  Gene- 
ral. 

"  "What  a  beautiful  moonlight,  Lisa  !  "Will  you  walk 
with  me  towards  the  lake  ?  Fetch  my  shawl  Tirst  from 
the  house." 

"  Here  it  is,  madame,"  said  Lisa,  quite  breathless,  as 
she  returned  with  the  shawl,  and  wrapped  it  around 
Mathilde.  Francois  unbarred  the  gate  and  they  stepped 
into  the  street. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  madame,  what  has  befallen 
the  Colonel  de  Villefort  this  evening,"  said  Lisa,  divin- 
ing with  tact  the  role  she  was  destined  to  play. 

"  What  has  happened  ? "  asked  Mathilde,  with  ill- 
feigned  unconcern. 

"  "We  cannot  imagine,  madame.  But  this  afternoon, 
during  the  absence  of  Colonel  de  Villefort,  a  lady  in 
deep  mourning,  young  and  handsome,  called  to  see  him. 
Finding  that  he  was  not  at  home,  she  left  a  note  for  him, 
and  when  the  colonel  read  it,  he  was  wild  with  excite- 
ment, and  called  to  Ulysse  for  his  horse.  The  horse  was 
lame,  and  not  fit  for  use,  and  the  colonel  swore,  for  the 
first  time,  I  think  since  he  has  been  in  our  house.  That 
is  saying  a  great  deal  for  a  militaire,  madame.  Ulysse 
has  never  seen  the  lady  before.  The  colonel  never  re- 
ceives any  lady  but  his  aunt  the  Marquise  de  Ville- 
fort, and  that  is  also  saying  a  great  deal  for  a  mili- 
taire,  — js  it  not,  madame  ?  " 

"  Well,  did  he  get  a  horse  ?  "  asked  Mathilde,  with  a 


i^G       The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved. 

severity  which  astonished  Lisa,  in  the  unconsciousness 
of  her  childish  babble. 

"  Yes,  madame;  there  is  the  horse  of  a  queer  baron, 
who  lives  with  us,  who  often  puts  his  horse  at  the  dis- 
posal of  Monsieur  le  Colonel.  The  horse  stumbles  too, 
but  the  colonel  mounted  him  and  rode  off  in  furious 
haste." 

"  "Who  can  she  be  ?  "  asked  the  countess  with  an  anxi- 

« 

ety  impossible  to  repress.  "  Did  he  take  this  direction 
when  he  rode  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame,  he  rode  toward  the  lake.  But  take 
care,  take  care,  madame  !  "  shrieked  Lisa,  as  the  furious 
clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  pavement  warned  her 
of  danger.  They  had  barely  time  to  take  refuge  in  an 
open  door-way,  before  a  riderless  horse  dashed  past  them. 

u  'Tis  the  baron's  horse,  —  and  the  colonel,  madame. 
Mon  Dieu  I  Mon  Dieu  I  "What  has  become  of  him  ? 
Let  me  run  for  ITlysse." 

"  And  I  will  go  on  to  the  lake,"  said  the  countess ;  "  per- 
haps." 

"  Not  alone,  madame,"  exclaimed  Lisa. 

But  the  countess  had  already  disappeared  under  the 
shadow  of  the  houses,  and  Lisa,  equally  fleet  of  foot, 
vanished  in  the  opposite  direction,  in  search  of  Ulysse. 
Mathilde  hurried  on,  —  whither  she  knew  not.  A  blind 
instinct  stronger  than  reason  warned  her  that  delay 
would  be  fatal,  and  that  the  life,  grown  to  be  so  pre- 
cious in  her  eyes,  was  awaiting  her  coming,  flickering 
and  failing,  perhaps,  as  it  hovered  near  death,  which 


The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved.      147 

was  for  her  to  avert.  She  redoubled  her  pace,  and  flew 
through  the  silent  street,  where  she  had  passed  but  a  few 
hours  before  leaning  on  Victor's  arm.  She  saw  the  lake 
before  her,  calm  and  silvery.  There  was  a  hill  to  descend, 
and  at  the  foot,  by  the  side  of  the  lake,  was  a  loose  pile 
of  stones.  She  sprang  forward  to  pick  up  something  in 
the  road.  It  was  a  riding-whip  which  she  knew  well 
and  had  handled  a  hxmdred  times.  For  an  instant  she 
was  motionless,  her  head  swam,  and  her  eyes  closed  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  a  prostrate  form,  lying  at  her  feet 
so  still  and  calm  in  the  white  moonlight.  She  knew 
that,  too.  She  knew  well  the  blonde  hair  stained  with 
blood,  trickling  from  a  wound  near  the  temple;  and  with 
a  wild  cry  for  help,  Mathilde  raised  the  head,  half-buried 
in  mud  and  water,  and  gazed  despairingly  at  the  closed 
eyes  and  rigid  features  of  Victor  de  Villefort. 


148      'The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved. 


m. 


THE  autumn  days  had  come  again,  and  the  sun  shone 
on  heaps  of  dried  brown  leaves,  which  went  whirling 
about  in  the  Rue  Arc  en  Ciel,  with  every  gust  of  wind. 
Mile.  Lisa  was  in  fcer  accustomed  seat  in  the  door-way, 
No.  29,  with  shining  hair  and  rosy  cheeks,  absorbed  in 
the  customary  knitting,  but  still  capable  of  casting  sly 
glances  in  the  direction  whence  Frangois  or  Ulysse 
might  finally  appear.  She  was  not  fated  to  languish 
long  in  solitude,  for  the  faithful  Frangois,  never  suffi- 
ciently confident  of  his  personal  attractions  to  present 
himself  empty-handed  before  the  object  of  his  admira- 
tion, was  soon  standing  by  her  side,  fortified  with  a  pro- 
pitiatory offering  of  grapes. 

"  O  Frangois,"  exclaimed  Lisa,  "  how  glad  I  am  to  see 
you  !  Has  Mme.  la  Contesse  really  gone  ?  " 

"Yes,  she  has  gone,"  replied  Francois.  "Monsieur 
Armand  and  the  aunt  of  madame  have  accompanied  her. 
But  you  should  have  seen  her  pale  face,  all  covered  with 
tears.  It  would  have  made  you  weep,  too,  Mile.  Lisa, 
for  it  made  me.  Just  think,  mademoiselle,  she  never 


The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved.      149 

once  tasted  of  the  grapes  that  I  picked  for  her  this  morn- 
ing, and  placed  so  neatly  in  a  little  basket." 

And  poor  Franqois  groaned  audibly  over  this  con- 
clusive proof  of  the  countess's  changed  and  melancholy 
condition. 

"  Ah,  poor  madame,  she  has  been  so  ill !  But  why 
did  she  go,  then  ?  "  asked  Lisa. 

"Monsieur  Armand  and  her  aunt  told  her  that  she 
would  never  get  well  here,  and  that  she  needed  change 
of  air,  and  so  they  hurried  her  away,  —  only  giving  her 
time  to  write  a  few  lines  to  your  colonel,  whose  life  is 
not  worth  saving,  if  he  cannot  love  Mme.  la  Contesse. 
Here  is  the  packet  for  Colonel  de  Villefort." 

"  Yes,  it  was  very  brave  and  good  of  madame,"  said 
Lisa,  "  to  find  the  colonel,  and  to  pull  his  head  out  of 
the  water.  He  must  have  suffocated,  so  says  the  doctor, 
if  madame  had  not  found  him  when  she  did.  But  there 
is  some  mystery  about  the  handsome  lady  in  deep  mourn- 
ing. I  know  who  she  is.  She  is  the  widow  of  General 
Dusantoy,  who  lately  died  in  Algiers ;  and  she  came  every 
day  to  inquire  for  Colonel  de  Villefort,  when  he  was  not 
expected  to  live;  but  since  he  is  better,  I  have  seen  no 
more  of  her." 

"  Well,  I  will  say  again,"  said  FranQois,  "  that  if  your 
colonel  finds  the  lady  handsomer  and  better  than  Mme. 
la  Contesse,  then  madame  had  better  left  his  head  in  the 
water." 

Whilst  Victor  and  his  affairs  were  thus  discussed  be- 
low-stairs  with  the  intelligence  and  fairness  usually  devel- 


150       The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved. 

oped  in  such  discussions,  he  sat  in  his  room  above,  pale 
and  thin,  the  shadow  of  his  former  self,  —  twisting  his 
blonde  mustache,  and  gazing  moodily  through  the  win- 
dow at  distant  hills,  all  brown  and  yellow  with  autumn 
leaves  and  autumn  sunlight.  His  meditations  were  far 
from  cheerful.  People  were  perpetually  saving  his  life. 
Here  was  a  new  dilemma:  Pauline  free  once  more, — 
free  and  true  to  her  early  love.  Happiness  once  more  in 
his  grasp;  but  Mathilde  —  was  not  his  honor  half-en- 
gaged, as  were  his  feelings  a  few  weeks  since  ?  Could 
he  so  readily  forget  all  that  had  passed  between  them, 
and  all  that  he  owed  her  ?  Could  he  repay  the  debt  of 
his  life  by  vapid  excuses  or  by  cold  desertion?  He 
gazed  mechanically  at  colored  prints  of  Abelard  and 
Heloise,  hanging  side  by  side  on  the  wall,  and  hoped 
that  inspiration,  or  at  least  consolation,  might  descend 
on  him  from  these  victims  of  unhappy  passion.  But 
in  Abelard's  face  he  looked  in  vain  for  anything  beyond 
conceited  pedantry,  and  Heloise  was  too  much  absorbed 
in  her  own  mighty  resignation  to  trouble  herself  con- 
cerning the  woes  of  others.  A  tap  at  the  door  roused 
him  at  last  from  this  unprofitable  contemplation,  and  in 
reply  to  his  "  entrez"  the  bright  face  of  Mile.  Lisa  ap- 
peared at  the  open  door. 

"Bon  jour,  monsieur;  here  is  a  letter  from  Mme.  la 
Contesse  d'Hivry,  who  has  gone  this  morning  with  her 
aunt  and  Monsieur  Armand,"  and  Lisa  paused  to  notice 
the  efiect  of  her  abrupt  announcement. 

"  Gone  ! "  said  Victor,  with  unfeigned  astonishment. ' 
"  Where  has  she  gone  ?  " 


The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved.      151 

But  Lisa  observed  that  the  "hand  of  the  colonel,  as  he 
opened  the  packet,  was,  in  spite  of  recent  illness,  omi- 
nously steady,  and  that  the  surprise  naturally  occasioned 
by  the  news  of  the  countess's  departure  was  quite  un- 
mingled  with  the  grief  and  despair  which  mademoiselle 
had  kindly  hoped  to  evoke.  If  she  had  dared,  however, 
to  remain  until  the  opening  of  the  packet,  her  curiosity 
and  interest  would  have  been  rewarded  by  observing 
Victor's  start  of  pained  surprise  as  a  faded  flower  fell 
from  the  open  letter,  and  his  sigh  of  genuine  regret  as 
the  memory  of  the  last  happy  day  passed  with  Mathilde 
d'Hivry  came  to  him  in  full  force,  effacing,  for  the 
moment,  all  trace  of  his  recent  reflections,  and  investing 
the  image  of  Mathilde  with  all  the  poetical  charm  of  an 
unattainable  dream  of  happiness.  She  was  no  longer 
an  obstacle  in  the  fulfilment  of  his  life-long  hopes,  — 
hopes  persistently  cherished,  yet  cruelly  baffled.  He 
looked  wistfully  at  the  faded  flower  as  he  crushed  it  in 
Ms  hand,  and  recalled  their  last  parting,  and  though  the 
souvenirs  of  the  day  —  the  flower  from  his  button-hole, 
and  the  ribbon  which  she  had  worn  —  had  been  lightly 
exchanged  and  laughingly  given,  he  knew  well  that  the 
worthless  relic,  which  he  now  crumbled  into  dust  and 
threw  from  the  window,  would  have  been  tenderly  kept 
and  treasured  in  good  faith,  had  his  destiny  so  willed  it. 
Victor  turned  sadly  to  the  letter  which  lay  before  him, 
in  Mathilde's  delicate  writing.  It  began  cheerfully 
enough,  however,  as  her  letters  were  wont  to  do. 


152      The  Man  -whose  Life  -was  Saved. 

"  I  cannot  leave  you,  dear  Victor,  without  a  word  of 
parting,  and  I  fear  that  a  personal  interview  between 
invalids,  like  ourselves,  might  not  conduce  to  our  mu- 
tual recovery.  In  my  own  case,  absolute  change  of  air 
and  scene  are  ordered,  together  with  perfect  quiet  and 
rest.  The  one  is  easily  gained  by  going  to  Italy;  but  do 
we  ever  attain  the  other  ?  or  would  we  attain  it,  if  we 
could  ?  When  we  next  meet,  for  we  must  meet  some 
day,  mon  amt,  we  shall  know,  by  looking  in  each  other's 
eyes,  how  obedient  we  have  been  to  our  physician's  ad- 
vice, and  how  great  has  been  its  efficacy.  The  climate 
of  Paris  will  heal  in  your  case,  dear  Victor,  all  that 
time  has  left  unhealed,  and  I  shall  prepare  for  your 
coming,  by  making  a  visit  of  explanations  as  well  as  of 
adieus.  Lest  you  find  this  enigmatical,  I  must  explain, 
that  certain  rumors  concerning  us,  so  rife  in  our  little 
town,  have  reached  the  ears  of  one  who  daily  awaits  you 
in  Paris.  I  shall  see  Pauline  Dusantoy,  and  dissipate 
all  doubts,  by  announcing  my  immediate  departure  for 
Italy.  I  send  you  a  faded  rose-bud,  which  you  may  re- 
member in  all  its  freshness,  and  which  I  have  no  heart 
to  throw  away.  But  you  know  how  jealous  Armand  is. 
Adieu,  dear  Victor,  my  hope  in  the  future  is,  that  the 
life  which  I  have  just  seen  trembling  on  the  brink  of 
eternity,  may  be  crowned  with  full  and  perfect  happi- 
ness. Adieu." 

Colonel  de  Villefort  was  still  weak  and  easily  moved, 
and  a  choking  sensation  in  the  throat  made  him  quite 


The  Man  whose  Life  -was  Saved.       153 

uncomfortable,  as  he  placed  carefully  in  a  little  drawer 
the  letter  which  he  had  just  read.  He  was  still  haunted 
by  a  wistful  look  of  soft  and  winning  eyes,  and  he  seemed 
to  hear  the  whispered  adieu  of  a  silvery  voice,  whose 
pure  tones  had  so  often  charmed  and  soothed  him.  Is 
the  adieu  eternal  ?  he  asked  himself.  I  think  not,  for  I 
want  no  nobler  and  truer  friend  for  my  Pauline  than  the 
Contesse  d'Hivry,  and  Pauline  will  hold  sacred  as  myself 
the  debt  of  gratitude  due  to  the  woman  who  has  saved 
my  life.  But  the  idea  of  marrying  Monsieur  Armand  ! 
To  be  sure  he  is  handsome,  rich,  well-connected,  and  has 
a  certain  charm  in  conversation,  but  quite  incapable  of 
appreciating  so  noble  a  being  as  Mathilde;  and  then 
what  want  of  taste  on  her  part !  Victor's  impatience 
was  changing  rapidly  into  indignation,  at  the  thought  of 
the  Contesse  d'Hivry  presuming  to  marry,  or  trying  to 
be  happy,  when  another  knock  at  the  door  changed  the 
current  of  his  thoughts.  This  time  it  was  Ulysse 
and  not  Lisa  who  was  the  bearer  of  a  letter,  covered 
with  armorial  bearings,  and  addressed  with  many  flour- 
ishes to  Colonel  de  Villefort. 

"  "What  does  the  German  baron  want  now  ? "  said 
Victor,  with  an  impatient  shrug  as  he  glanced  at  the 
writing,  "  after  breaking  my  neck  with  his  wretched 
brute  of  a  horse  ?  He  sends  many  compliments  of  con- 
gratulation to  Monsieur  le  Colonel  for  his  rapid  recovery 
after  the  deplorable  accident,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  And  as  he 
understands  that  Monsieur  le  Colonel  contemplates  a  visit 
to  Paris,  the  moment  that  his  health  permits,  may  Mon- 
14 


154      The  Man  whose  Life  was  Saved. 

sieur  le  Baron  hope  for  his  gracious  intercession  in  his  be- 
half, that  he  may  at  last  receive  the  reward  of  merit,  the 
much-desired  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  Just  as  I 
supposed,"  said  Victor,  laughing.  "  It  would  save  me 
much  trouble  and  mental  agony  to  give  him  mine,  only 
I  remember  that  Pauline  has  a  weakness  for  these  bau- 
bles." 

"•  Mon  colonel,  may  I  say  a  word  ? "  asked  Ulysse, 
awkwardly,  turning  the  door-knob  to  keep  himself  in 
countenance.  "  Mile.  Lisa  "  — 

"  Is  that  the  word,  my  good  Ulysse  ?  "  said  Victor, 
waiting  in  vain  for  Ulysse  to  complete  his  sentence.  I 
understand  that  you  should  think  it  the  only  word  worth 
uttering,  and  I  think  you  quite  right.  There  is  only 
poor  Franqois,  who  may  object  to  have  his  heart  broken. 
Lisa  is  a  nice  girl,  and  I  have  promised  her  that  you 
should  not  leave  me." 

"  Thank  you,  Mon  colonel"  said  Ulysse,  glowing 
with  exultation  and  triumphant  pride. 

"Now  pack  my  portmanteau.  I  shall  go  to  Paris 
to-morrow  in  the  early  train." 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  WESTERN  TRIP. 

(155) 


THE  EOMANCE  OF  A  WESTERN  TRIP. 


HE  two  following  letters,  received  by  me  in  the 
year  1852,  will  explain  themselves. 

MY  DEAR  "W :  "When  I  left  you  at 

the  depot  in  Boston,  and  was  whirled  away 
westward,  I  knew  not  from  what  point  I  should  ad- 
dress you.  I  promised  you,  on  the  last  evening  that  we 
passed  together,  that  from  time  to  time  I  would,  for 
your  delectation,  give  you  an  account  of  any  adventure 
I  might  chance  to  meet  with  in  my  wanderings;  as,  also, 
to  try  my  hand  at  pen-and-ink  sketches  of  men  and 
manners. 

"  Could  you  appreciate  my  surroundings,  you  would 
give  me  credit  for  a  truthful  a&herence  to  my  word. 
As  to  where  I  am  at  this  present  writing,  I  cannot  say. 
In  order  to  understand  why  I  make  so  strange  a  state- 
ment, I  must  begin  my  story  some  weeks  back,  and 
narrate  an  incident  that  befell  me,  and  led  to  the  pen- 
ning of  this  epistle. 

"  The  month  of  May,  in  our  northern  climate,  needs 
14*  (157) 


158      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trty. 

no  laudation  as  to  its  charms  ;  and,  after  a  sojourn  of 
many  years  in  your  crowded  city,  I  was  fully  prepared 
to  appreciate  all  the  beauty  of  this  spring-time  among 
the  wilds  of  Michigan.  Therefore,  after  leaving  Detroit 
for  the  interior,  I  soon  found  (as  the  days  were  growing 
much  warmer)  that  it  would  be  wisdom  for  me  to  dis- 
card most  of  the  luggage  with  which  I  had  encumbered 
myself;  as,  by  so  doing,  I  could,  as  it  were,  cut  loose 
from  dependence  upon  vehicles  of  all  descriptions;  and, 
when  my  desires  pointed  that  way,  or  a  necessity  arose, 
I  could  make  use  of  those  powers  of  locomotion  with 
which  nature  has  endowed  me.  Therefore,  at  the  ter- 
mination of  the  stage-route  at  H ,  I  selected  a  few 

indispensable  articles,  and,  transferring  them  to  a  knap- 
sack, sent  back  my  trunk  to  an  acquaintance  at  Detroit, 
with  a  request  to  hold  it  subject  to  my  order,  and  pre- 
pared myself  for  rough  travelling  in  the  interior,  or,  as 
a  New  Englander  would  denominate  it,  '  the  back- 
woods.' 

"  At  the  country  tavern,  in  which  I  abode  as  a  guest 
from  Saturday  until  Monday,  I  made  inquiries  of  the 
landlord  as  to  the  route  I  was  to  take,  and  the  nature  of 

the  roads  between  H — —  and  the  town  of  N ,  which 

I  desired  to  visit.  My  host,  a  shrewd,  bright-eyed  little 
man  of  forty,  and  a  former  resident  of  New  Hampshire, 
lowered  his  brows,  and  assumed  a  dubious  look  as  he  lis- 
tened to  me;  and,  on  my  asking  for  an  explanation  of  this 
change  of  countenance,  informed  me  that,  had  I  money  of 
any  amount  about  my  person,  I  had  better  look  to  the 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip.     159 

availability  of  my  pistols,  and  pay  particular  attention  to 
the  company  I  might  fall  in  with ;  for,  within  the  past  two 
years,  a  number  of  travellers  had  been  relieved  of  their 
possessions,  and  two  of  them  murdered  on  the  roads  I 
should  be  under  the  necessity  of  passing  over.  The 
country  being  sparsely  settled,  the  officers  of  the  law 
had  been  unable  to  trace  the  perpetrators  of  these  acts 
of  felony.  I  listened  to  these  details  with  much  uneasi- 
ness, for,  on  leaving  Boston,  I  had,  by  an  acquaintance, 
been  intrusted  with  a  package  of  three  hundred  dollars, 
to  deliver  to  Judge  Perry,  of  N ,  to  meet  some  pay- 
ments becoming  due  on  a  purchase  of  pine  lands;  in 
addition,  I  had  upon  my  person  some  means  of  my  own, 
the  loss  of  which  would  indeed  be  a  calamity  of  a  se- 
rious nature,  as  I  was  too  far  away  from  friends  to  avail 
myself  of  their  good  services.  I  assumed  an  air  of  ease, 
however,  which  I  was  far  from  feeling,  and  left  my  lo- 
quacious friend,  laughing  defiance  at  all  the  dangers  of 
the  way.  I  had  been  unable  to  obtain  a  conveyance 
at  anything  like  a  reasonable  rate;  therefore,  as  the 
weather  was  so  charming,  had  determined  to  undertake 
the  journey  of  seventy  miles  on  foot,  trusting  to  obtain 
a  ride  from  such  travellers  I  might  chance  now  and  then 
to  meet  going  westward.  For  two  days,  I  pressed  cheer- 
fully forward,  being  kindly  welcomed  to  a  supper  and  bed 
in  the  cabin  of  the  settlers.  The  roads  were  rough,  and  at 
places  illy  defined, and  I  was  often  at  fault  as  to  my  route; 
this,  and  want  of  practice  as  a  pedestrian,  made  my  prog- 
ress slow.  As  the  evening  of  the  third  day  drew  near,  I 


160     The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip. 

judged  I  must  still  be  some  twenty  or  twenty-five  miles 
from  my  destination.  I  was  ascending  a  hill  over  the 
worst  road  that  I  had  yet  encountered.  The  dwarf  pine 
clothed  the  whole  declivity,  and  rendered  the  approach- 
ing night  more  gloomy  than  it  would  have  been  in  the 
more  open  country.  I  was  greatly  fatigued  from  my 
long  day's  walk,  and,  coming  to  a  large  boulder  that 
had  evidently  rolled  from  the  higher  ground  above,  I 
seated  myself  to  gain  strength,  and  lifted  my  hat  to  let 
the  wind  cool  my  heated  forehead.  Down,  far  away  to 
my  right,  I  could  hear  the  gurgling  and  splashing  of  a 
torrent,  while  the  sough  of  the  breeze  among  the  pines 
made  a  weird  music  that  added  somewhat  to  a  depres- 
sion that  had  been,  for  the  last  hour,  gradually  stealing 
over  me.  The  romantic  visions  I  had  formerly  enter- 
tained of  nature  in  her  solitary  moments  had  all  de- 
parted, and  I  longed  for  the  companionship  of  man. 
Some  five  miles  back,  I  had  been  at  fault  as  to  my 
route;  but,  trusting  to  good  fortune,  had  taken  the  road 
I  was  now  upon.  As  I  sat  meditating,  I  all  at  once 
recollected  that  I  had  been  cautioned,  by  a  man  of 
whom  I  had  inquired,  against  taking  the  way  that  led 
to  the  hills ;  for,  by  so  doing,  I  should  go  astray.  Un- 
decided as  to  whether  it  would  be  better  to  retrace  my 
steps,  or  go  on,  in  hopes  of  finding  a  lodging  for  the 
night,  I  had  arisen,  and  was  hesitating  which  way  I 
should  turn,  when  I  heard  the  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs, 
and  down,  from  the  higher  ground  on  my  left,  rode  two 
men. 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip.     161 

"  The  obscurity  had  become  so  great  while  I  had  lin- 
gered, that  I  could  form  but  an  indefinite  idea  as  to  their 
characteristics.  The  foremost,  mounted  on  a  dark-bay 
horse,  was  slightly  built,  and  evidently  young.  His  felt 
hat  was  so  slouched  over  his  face  that  all  I  could  note 
was,  that  he  wore  beard  and  mustache  long,  both  of 
intense  blackness. 

"  His  companion  was  a  much  more  powerful  man,  and 
sat  upon  the  roan  mare  he  bestrode  in  a  careless  man- 
ner; his  face,  also,  was  hidden  by  an  equal  amount  of 
hair,  and,  in  addition,  warm  as  was  the  weather,  his  neck 
was  muffled  in  a  large  woollen  comforter.  My  presence 
evidently  took  them  by  surprise,  for  they  abruptly 
checked  their  horses,  and  the  younger  man  pulled 
sharply  upon  the  bridle,  half-turning  his  steed,  and 
seemed  about  to  retrace  the  way  he  had  come,  without 
greeting  me.  He,  however,  recovered  his  self-posses- 
sion, and  with  a  '  Good-evening,  stranger,'  continued  on 
until  he  was  at  my  side.  I  was  truly  thankful  at  this 
encounter,  for  I  felt  my  doubts  as  to  my  movements 
would  now  be  solved.  In  a  few  words,  I  stated  that  I 
had  wandered  from  the  road  I  should  have  taken,  and 
asked  their  assistance  to  set  me  right.  The  younger 
man  seemed  to  labor  under  restraint,  and  spoke  but  lit- 
tle; the  other,  however,  offered  to  show  me  the  way,  and 
stated  they  were  going  in  the  direction  I  desired  to  pur- 
sue. They  spoke  in  a  manner  and  used  language  that 
convinced  me  they  were  men  of  superior  culture  from 


162      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip. 

those  one  might  expect  to  meet  in  the  wild  and  sparsely 
settled  district  in  which  I  was  now  travelling. 

" '  We  have  no  time  to  spare,  if  we  would  get  out  of 
these  pine-lands  and  beyond  the  river-ford  before  the 
darkness  becomes  troublesome,'  said  the  larger  man,  as 
he  urged  his  horse  to  a  quick  walk  along  the  road  up  the 
hill.  '  You  had  best  follow  me,  while  my  companion  can 
bring  up  the  rear.' 

"  Without  hesitation,  I  acted  upon  his  suggestion,  as  I 
was  anxious  to  reach  a  place  of  rest.  '  You  should  con- 
sider yourself  highly  honored  to  be  so  escorted  and 
guarded  from  the  dangers  of  the  road,'  said  my  guide,  as 
he  half-turned  in  his  saddle,  with  what  I  then  thought  a 
jocular,  but  have  since  recalled  as  a  sinister,  laugh. 
'  Have  you  any  valuable  property  about  you,  that  you 
can  feel  grateful  for  the  convoy?  '  Without  a  thought  of 
the  wisdom  of  silence  on  this  point,  I  answered :  '  More 
than  I  should  care  or  can  afford  to  lose,  for  I  am  a  thou- 
sand miles  from  home,  and  among  strangers.'  The  next 
moment  I  felt  as  if  I  could  have  bitten  out  my  tongue 
for  its  imprudence;  for  flashing  upon  me  came  the  re- 
membrance of  the  landlord's  tales  of  robbery  and  vio- 
lence. We  had  turned  from  the  main  road  to  the  right, 
into  a  narrower  track,  and  were  descending  the  hill  toward 
the  river,  as  I  judged;  for  each  moment  the  noise  of  Its 
waters  were  more  audible.  In  a  brief  time  after  my  last 
remark,  I  felt  that  the  horseman  behind  me  was  pressing 
closer  than  was  needful,  and  I  partly  stepped  from  the 
path,  intending  to  let  him  pass ;  for  I  instinctively  felt  1 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip.     163 

would  rather  have  them  both  in  front.  As  I  did  so,  I 
almost  unconsciously  placed  my  hand  upon  my  revolver. 
The  younger  man  stooped  from  his  saddle  as  he  came 
abreast  of  me,  and,  speaking  in  a  cold,  hard  tone,  ex- 
claimed, '  My  good  fellow,  we  will  take  charge  of  your 
watch  and  money.'  He  leaned  forward  as  he  spoke,  as 
if  to  grasp  my  collar.  At  the  same  moment  he  who 
rode  in  front  leaped  to  the  ground,  and  turned  toward 
me.  I  saw  my  danger  in  an  instant,  and,  quickly  draw- 
ing my  pistol,  fired  at  the  head  of  my  nearest  foe.  The 
flash  of  the  powder  gave  me  a  more  distinct  view  of  his 
face  than  I  had  yet  had.  As  he  recoiled  from  me,  I  no- 
ticed a  peculiar  droop  of  the  left  eyelid,  and  heard  the 
expression, '  My  God,  I  am  hit ! '  At  the  same  moment 
a  crushing  blow  descended  upon  my  skull,  and  a  thou- 
sand- stars  seemed  falling  around  me,  and  all  was  black- 
ness. My  return  to  consciousness  was  occasioned  by  a 
sudden  contact  with  cold  water,  and  I  awoke  to  find 
myself  struggling  in  the  midst  of  a  rushing  torrent. 
Instinctively  I  grasped  at  a  support,  comprehending 
my  situation  in  an  instant.  I  had  been  hurled  by  my 
assailants  into  the  stream  we  had  been  approaching,  and 
they  undoubtedly  supposed  that  I  was  beyond  the 
chance  of  recovery.  The  moon  was  not  yet  up,  and  I 
could  discern  nothing  except  the  general  outlines  of  the 
banks  of  the  stream,  which,  rising  high  on  each  side, 
showed  me  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  ravine.  It  was 
many  minutes  ere  my  efforts  were  crowned  with  any 
degree  of  success ;  at  last,  as  I  was  hurled  along,  my 


164      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip. 

hands  came  in  contact  with  the  drooping  bough  of  a 
tree,  and,  weak  as  I  was  from  the  blow  I  had  received 
and  the  benumbing  effect  of  my  immersion  in  the  icy 
current,  the  principle  of  self-preservation  enabled  me  to 
put  forth  almost  superhuman  strength,  and  to  retain  my 
hold  on  this  anchor  of  hope. 

"  After  many  abortive  attempts,  I  succeeded  in  drag- 
ging myself  up,  as  it  were  out  of  the  jaws  of  death, 
upon  the  rocks  which  composed  the  banks  of  the  stream. 
As  soon  as  I  felt  I  was  safe  from  the  danger  of  a  watery 
grave,  my  strength  left  me,  and  I  fell  back  almost  ut- 
terly devoid  of  life.  My  head  felt  as  if  a  thousand  trip- 
hammers were  at  work  upon  it;  a  deadly  sickness  came 
over  me,  and  I  found  that  I  was  relapsing  into  insensi- 
bility. By  a  great  effort,  however,  I  overcame  this 
lethargy,  and  crawled  on  my  hands  and  knees  up  over 
the  piled-up  rocks  and  bare  roots  of  trees,  until  I  found 
myself  upon  the  soft  moss  and  dead  leaves  beyond. 
Here  I  lay  for  a  long  time,  slowly  recovering.  On  an 
examination  of  my  person,  I  found  my  watch  and  purse 
gone,  as  well  as  the  money-belt  containing  the  three 
hundred  dollars  in  gold  with  which  I  had  been  intrusted. 
But  what  I  felt  to  be  a  more  severe  loss  than  all  else 
was  a  valuable  diamond  ring,  that  had  once  been  my 
dead  mother's,  and  gwen  to  me  by  her  in  her  last  ill- 
ness. Some  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  bank-bills  and 

a  letter  of  introduction  to  Judge  P ,  placed  two  days 

before  in  one  of  my  boots,  had  escaped  the  search  of  the 
highwaymen.  None  of  my  bones  were  broken;  but  a 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip.     165 

frightful  swelling  upon  my  head  proved  the  force  of  the 
blow  dealt  me,  evidently  from  the  loaded  handle  of  a 
riding-whip.  The  pain  was  intense,  and,  not  knowing 
how  serious  might  be  the  injury  I  had  received,  I  de- 
termined to  seek  some  shelter  while  I  was  yet  able  to 
do  so.  I  cannot  describe  the  agony  I  endured  in  the 
next  three  or  four  hours.  Though  weak  and  suffering, 
I  succeeded  in  finding  by  accident  a  narrow  by-path, 
or  trail,  leading  through  the  forest,  and  continued  on, 
shivering  with  cold,  and  frequently  obliged  to  throw 
myself  upon  the  ground,  in  order  to  gain  strength  and 
rally  my  wandering  senses.  The  moon  came  up,  and 
my  knowledge  of  the  time  of  its  rising  proved  to  me 
that  I  must  have  been  insensible  and  in  the  hands  of  the 
two  ruffians  for  at  least  two  hours.  I  was  now  in  a 
level  country  once  more,  having  left  the  hills  behind  me, 
and,  as  the  moon  rose  higher  in  the  heavens,  I  could 
distinguish  my  surroundings  without  difficulty.  I 
stumbled  along  the  path  I  was  treading,  faint  and  ill, 
and  at  last,  as  I  began  to  think  I  could  go  no  fur- 
ther, came  to  a  clearing,  and,  at  my  left,  beheld  a 
rough  log-house  among  the  charred  stumps  of  the  trees. 
I  reached  the  door,  and,  after  many  efforts,  awakened 
the  sleepy  inmates.  A  good-natured  face  greeted  my 
sight,  as  a  bushy  head  was  protruded  from  a  narrow 
window  at  my  right,  and  a  kindly  voice  asked,  '  What 
is  wanted  ? '  Each  instant  growing  fainter,  I  was 
hardly  able  to  articulate;  and,  before  I  could  explain 
my  position,  I  sank  insensible  upon  the  threshold. 
15 


166      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip. 

When  I  say  that  it  is  almost  three  weeks  since  that 
occurrence,  and  that  from  then  until  now  I  have  not 
been  in  the  open  air,  you  will  understand  how  desperate 
was  the  illness  that  followed.  My  honest  host  and  his 
good  wife  have  watched  over  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  son 
instead  of  a  stranger;  and  to  their  tender  nursing  I  owe 
my  recovery,  for  no  physician  has  seen  me.  Far  away 
from  any  settlement,  upon  one  of  the  least  frequented 
cross-roads  in  the  wild  section  in  which  they  dwell, 
sometimes  weeks  would  elapse  without  a  wayfarer 
passing  their  humble  abode.  Now,  once  more,  I  am 
able  to  arise  and  sit  in  the  sunshine;  and  I  hope  soon 
to  be  in  a  condition  to  seek  out  the  authors  of  my  suffer- 
ings. As  I  have  lain  on  my  bed,  too  weak  to  move,  I 
have  thought  much,  and,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  I 
feel  an  innate  conviction  that  I  shall  not  only  discover 
the  two  men  who  endeavored  to  murder  me,  but  that  I 
shall  also  recover  the  property  I  have  lost.  The  reason 
that  I  entertain  this  opinion  is  this :  The  very  fact  of  my 
long  insensibility  after  the  blow  upon  my  head,  and  the 
subsequent  disposal  of  my  body  by  casting  it  into  the 
mountain  torrent,  all  go  to  confirm  me  in  my  belief  that 
they  thought  me  dead.  Consequently,  having  no  fear 
of  my  reappearance,  they  will  not  seek  to  conceal  them- 
selves, or  seek  refuge  from  detection  by  flight.  The 
old  lady  (whom  I  have  found  a  great  gossip),  I  pre- 
sume, thinks  it  a  'God-send'  my  being  here;  for  she 
can  now  give  vent  to  her  loquacity;  and,  were  it  not 
that  this  letter  was  already  frightfully  long,  I  would 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip.     167 

quote  some  of  her  decidedly  original  remarks  for  your 
entertainment.  I  accounted  for  the  plight  I  was  in  by 
stating  that  I  had  missed  my  footing  in  the  darkness, 
and  fallen  into  the  stream,  striking  my  head  upon  a 
projecting  rock  as  I  descended.  At  night  when  my 
host  has  returned  from  his  labor,  I  have  gleaned  from 
him  a  full  description  of  the  country  for  miles  around, 

and  find  that  I  can  reach  N" in  a  day's  ride,  and 

that  it  is  one  of  the  most  noteworthy  places  this  side  of 
Detroit.  As  soon  as  I  dare,  I  shall  proceed  there,  and 
my  next  letter  will  undoubtedly  be  mailed  from  that 
point.  I  shall  not  tell  you  that  I  wish  I  had  remained 
in  Boston;  for  to  do  so  would  be  useless  and  foolish. 
I  am  now  desirous  of  going  forward  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  the  object  I  first  had  in  view  when  I  left 
you,  but  shall  remain,  however,  in  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try, both  to  regain  my  health  and  strength,  and  to  seek 
out  and  punish  my  assailants." 

"  MY  DEAR  "W :  "When  I  finished  my  last  epistle,  I 

little  thought  I  should  allow  six  weeks  to  elapse  before 
I  again  took  up  the  thread  of  my  story;  but,  my  mind 
and  time  have  been  so  fully  occupied,  that  I  must  crave 
your  indulgence.  It  is  now  the  latter  part  of  July,  and 
as  you  know,  at  this  season  of  the  year  one  does  not  feel 
disposed  to  be  loquacious.  That  you  may  fully  compre- 
hend my  position,  however,  I  must  be  somewhat  more 
minute  in  my  descriptions  than  I  could  wish  to  be.  The 
sun  was  near  its  setting  on  as  lovely  a  day  as  I  have 


1 68      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip. 

ever  seen,  when  I  approached  the  house  of  which  I  am 
still  an  inmate.  The  kind-hearted  man  who  had  given 
me  shelter  and  care  during  my  illness,  brought  me  to 

the  village  of  N ,  and  seemed  to  regret  parting  from 

me.  I  walked  up  the  pretty  street  towards  a  large, 
white  house  standing  upon  an  eminence  at  its  termina- 
tion, which  had  been  pointed  out  to  me  as  the  residence 
of  Judge  Perry.  As  I  paused  at  a  gate  leading  into  the 
finely-kept  grounds,  I  could,  without  an  effort  of  the 
imagination,  fancy  that  I  was  once  more  in  dear  New 
England,  for  all  evidence  of  newness  seemed  to  have 
been  obliterated.  I  turned  and  looked  back  upon  the 
scene;  the  cottages  quietly  nestling  amid  a  multitude  of 
shade-trees,  now  clothed  in  their  loveliest  garments  of 
green ;  far  away  the  encircling  hills,  and,  a  little  to  my 
left,  a  pretty  stream  creeping  down  the  valley,  its 
waters  turned  to  molten  silver  by  the  glance  of  the 
sinking  sun.  While  lost  in  revery  I  had  not  noticed  the 
approach  of  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  now  came  for- 
ward, and  placed  his  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  gate  at 
which  I  was  standing,  at  the  same  time  greeting  me 
with  the  remark  of  '  A  delightful  ending  to  as  beauti- 
ful a  day  as  one  need  wish  for.'  I  responded,  eulogiz- 
ing both  the  weather  and  scenery.  Whilst  speaking, 
I  took  cognizance  of  my  companion,  and  felt  sure,  from 
the  descriptions  I  had  received,  that  I  was  addressing 
the  owner  of  the  residence;  and  he,  in  answer  to  my  in- 
quiry, answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  said,  '  You  are 
Mr.  Jauies  H ,  I  presume.  I  have  been  expecting 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Tri-p.      169 

you  for  some  time,  having  received  a  letter  from  my 
friend  in  Boston,  advising  me  of  your  intention  of  visit- 
ing me.  I  heartily  welcome  you,  and  trust  that  on 
further  acquaintance  we  shall  be  mutually  pleased  with 
each  other;  but  I  am  keeping  you  here  at  the  gate,  when 
I  should  show  you  truer  hospitality  by  inviting  you 
within.'  I  accepted  his  courtesy  and  was  soon  in  a 
pleasant  bed-chamber,  where  I  made  such  a  toilet  as  my 
limited  means  afforded.  As  I  descended  the  stairs  in 
response  to  the  summons  of  the  supper-bell,  I  felt  the 
awkwardness  of  my  position;  placed  as  I  was,  without 
a  suitable  wardrobe,  in  a  family  of  such  evident  social 
standing.  Trusting  soon  to  remedy  this  deficiency,  I  en- 
tered a  large  apartment  at  the  left,  and  found  my  enter- 
tainer ready  to  lead  me  to  the  supper-room.  I  made 
some  excuses  as  to  my  appearance,  which  he  turned  off 
with  a  jest,  and,  opening  a  door,  ushered  me  to  the  well- 
spread  table.  As  we  came  forward,  a  young  lady  arose 
from  beside  an  open  window,  where  she  had  evidently 
been  awaiting  us,  and  I  was  introduced  to  my  entertain- 
er's only  daughter.  You  have  frequently  bantered  me 
on  my  stoical  indifference  to  female  beauty.  And  now, 
when  I  tell  you  that  she  whose  hand  I  took  was  one  of 
the  most  lovely  of  women,  you  will  not  have  occasion  to 
make  allowance  for  undue  enthusiasm.  I  shall  not  here 
attempt  to  describe  her,  further  than  to  say,  she  was  a 
blonde,  with  glorious  eyes  and  a  wonderful  wealth  of 
hair.  Her  voice  was  music  itself,  and  her  every  move- 
ment denoted  the  grace  of  a  well-bred  lady.  As  we 

15* 


170     The  Romance  of  a  Western  Tri-p. 

seated  ourselves  at  the  table,  I  regained  my  self-posses- 
sion, which  had  been  disturbed  at  this  unexpected 
vision  of  loveliness.  We  chatted  cheerfully  as  we  par- 
took of  the  tea  and  toast,  and  I  soon  felt  as  if  with 
friends  of  long  standing.  "When  the  repast  ended,  the 
daughter  lovingly  placed  her  hand  on  her  father's  arm 
to  detain  him,  and  my  eyes  encountered  upon  it  a  jew- 
elled ring  that  flashed  like  a  thing  of  life  in  the  lamp- 
light. Could  I  be  dreaming  ?  For  an  instant  my  brain 
whirled  and  I  grew  giddy,  for  I  had  discovered  that 
which  I  so  much  prized,  and  had  lost,  —  the  last  gift  of 
my  dead  mother.  This  ring,  from  the  peculiarity  of  its 
construction,  and  the  antique  setting  of  the  stones,  I 
could  not  mistake,  and  yet  I  could  in  no  wise  account 
for  what  I  saw.  One  glance  at  that  lovely  face,  whose 
every  line  spoke  of  innocence,  was  enough  to  drive  away 
all  suspicions  as  to  her  complicity  with  the  men  who  had 
sought  my  life.  I  cannot  detail  to  you  the  incidents  of 
that  evening;  for,  short  as  has  been  the  time  since,  I  have 
forgotten  them.  I  was  as  one  in  a  maze,  and  talked  me- 
chanically, and  only  awoke  to  a  recollection  of  what 
courtesy  demanded,  when  Judge  Perry  remarked  '  that 
as  I  was  evidently  much  fatigued,  and  not  yet  in  my 
usual  health,  they  would  allow  me  to  retire.'  I  sat  at 
my  chamber  window  gazing  out  on  the  moonlit  valley 
until  long  after  midnight,  but  I  could  illy  appreciate  the 
beauty  of  the  scene.  I  was  seeking  to  arrange  some 
plan  of  action  by  which  I  might  trace  up  this  first  clew 
to  a  discovery  I  now  felt  most  certain.  At  last,  wearied 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip.      171 

with  fruitless  thought,  I  determined  to  await  the  course 
of  events,  and  to  trust  to  time  for  additional  light. 

"  The  next  few  days  were  agreeably  occupied  in  form- 
ing a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  Helen  Perry  and 
her  father.  I  put  forth  what  powers  of  pleasing  nature 
has  endowed  me  with,  and  my  success  seemed  complete. 
Ere  long  I  was  on  such  terms  of  friendship  with  them 
as  I  desired;  and  then  I  learned  from  Helen  that  she 
had  lost  her  mother  many  years  before,  —  soon  after 
their  emigration  from  Eastern  New  York  to  their  present 
home.  I  had  thus  far  passed  the  time  each  day  until 
two  or  three  o'clock  with  the  judge  in  his  office,  after 
which  I  wandered  with  Helen  in  the  tasteful  grounds 
surrounding  her  home,  or  upon  the  low-lying  hills  be- 
yond. Her  education  had  not  been  neglected,  and  her 
reading  had  been  extensive.  Thus  we  could  converse 
upon  the  merits  of  the  literature  of  the  day,  and  in  such 
topics  discovered  we  had  kindred  tastes.  She  was  ever 
frank  and  cheerful;  and,  short  as  had  been  our  acquaint- 
ance, my  heart  was  beginning  to  beat  faster  at  her  ap- 
proach, and  each  morning,  as  I  awoke,  I  looked  eagerly 
forward  to  the  hour  that  would  find  her  disengaged  from 
household  duties,  and  with  leisure  to  devote  to  me. 

"  Once  or  twice  the  judge  spoke  of  an  absent  friend,  a 
Doctor  Wentworth,  in  a  manner  which  caused  me  some 
uneasiness ;  for,  as  he  did  so,  he  cast  upon  Helen  a  good- 
natured,  sly  glance  that  meant  much,  and  always  pro- 
duced a  blush  upon  her  sweet  face.  It  was  after  dinner 
on  Tuesday,  that  we  came  out  upon  the  lawn  to  inspect 


172       The  Romance  of  a  Western 

a  rose-bush,  which  Helen  wished  transplanted,  when  her 
father  remarked,  — 

" '  By  the  way,  rny  dear,  I  received  a  letter  from  Ed- 
ward this  morning,  and  he  tells  me  he  shall  be  here  to- 
day; so,  as  in  duty  bound,  and  like  an  ardent  lover,  I 
presume  he  will  at  once  fly  to  you.  I  should  advise 
that  you  forego  your  accustomed  ramble,  and  remain  at 
home  to  welcome  him.  I  have  no  doubt  our  guest  will 
be  pleased  for  one  day  to  escape  the  task  of  following 
you  as  an  escort.' 

"  By  the  terrible  sinking  of  my  heart  that  these  words 
occasioned,  I  knew  in  an  instant  that  I  loved  her;  and, 
half-glancing  at  her  as  I  turned  away  (with  difficulty 
hiding  my  emotion),  thought  I  saw  the  bright  flush 
upon  her  animated  face  dying  away,  and  a  deadly  pallor 
taking  its  place.  I  dared  not  remain  and  listen  to  her 
reply,  and  therefore  wandered  on  past  the  summer- 
house  in  which  I  had  passed  so  many  pleasant  hours  with 
her,  until  my  steps  were  stayed  upon  the  bank  of  the 
stream  whose  waters  had  now  no  music  to  my  ears.  I 
had  heretofore  been  unconscious  of  the  hopes  that  had 
gained  access  to  my  heart.  Day  by  day  I  had,  as  it 
were,  allowed  my  purposes  to  slumber.  Her  charms 
had  bound  me  a  willing  captive,  and  all  unwittingly  I 
had  cast  aside  thoughts  of  the  future,  and  forgotten  that 
the  life  of  inaction  in  which  I  was  indulging  could  not 
last.  I  had  found  ample  joy  and  occupation  in  watching 
the  play  of  her  expressive  features,  and  in  listening  to 
the  words  that  came  from  her  lips.  After  my  first  few 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Tri^>.      173 

hours  of  astonishment  and  wonder  at  the  discovery  of 
my  stolen  ring  upon  her  hand,  I  had  ceased,  even  when 
alone,  to  dwell  upon  the  mystery  connected  with  it. 
Now  I  was  brought  back  to  a  remembrance  of  all  I  had 
vowed  to  do  as  I  lay  ill  and  suffering  in  the  rude  log 
cabin  of  the  settler.  It  was  long  before  my  calmness 
returned,  and  my  heart  ceased  to  beat  wildly.  The  af- 
ternoon had  waned  as  I  turned  back  towards  the  house 
and  friends  I  had  so  abruptly  left.  It  was  in  a  more  col- 
lected frame  of  mind  that  I  ascended  the  steps,  and  en- 
tered the  parlor.  I  am  sure  that,  on  encountering  those 
there  assembled,  not  the  quiver  of  a  muscle  betrayed  the 
agitation  I  felt.  Helen  was  half-reclining  upon  a  sofa, 
and  leaning  upon  its  back  was  the  form  of  a  tall  and 
rather  slightly-built  man.  She  started  up  as  I  entered. 
Could  it  be  that  a  brighter  light  beamed  in  her  eyes  as 
they  encountered  mine  ?  I  knew  not,  for  the  judge,  who 
was  seated  near,  was  prompt  to  rise  also,  and  said, — 

"  'Mr.  Palmer,  we  are  glad  of  your  return.  Both 
Helen  and  myself  were  beginning  to  fear  you  had  been 
spirited  away.  Allow  me  to  make  you  acquainted  with 
Doctor  Wentworth.  Doctor  Wentworth,  Mr.  Palmer, 
our  guest.  I  trust  that  you  will  learn  to  value  the  hour 
that  brings  you  together.' " 

"  I  looked  the  physician  full  in  the  face,  as  I  took  his 
hand.  The  sun,  streaming  in  through  the  western  win- 
dows, fell  full  upon  his  features,  bringing  out  every  line 
in  a  marvellous  manner,  and  distinctly  exposing  their 
play,  as  he  acknowledged  my  greeting.  The  counte- 


174      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trij). 

nance  was  one  to  attract  the  attention,  and  yet  not  pleas- 
ant to  look  upon.  His  forehead  was  high  and  fair;  hair 
and  mustache  black  as  night,  chin  smoothly  shaven  and 
dimpled,  and  yet  the  eye  repelled  me.  As  I  looked  at 
him,  I  had  an  unaccountable  impression  that  we  had  met 
before,  but  I  could  not  tell  where,  or  why  it  seemed  as  if 
the  circumstances  attending  it  had  been  of  a  disagree- 
able nature.  As,  after  the  first  words  of  conversational 
politeness,  he  turned  to  Helen,  I  had  a  few  moments*  for 
reflection,  and  suddenly  flashed  upon  me  the  recollection 
of  the  scene  in  the  wood,  —  the  man  leaning  from  his 
horse  to  grasp  my  collar,  the  tones  of  his  voice,  the  mo- 
mentary glance  I  had  of  his  face  as  T  fired  my  pistol  at 
him,  and  the  peculiar  droop  of  his  right  eye  that  I  had 
noticed.  Could  it  be  possible  ?  Had  I  gained  one  more 
clew  to  the  mystery  ?  Was  the  man  before  me  the 
would-be  assassin  ?  No  I  no  !  I  was  mad  to  indulge 
such  a  thought.  This  physician,  the  friend  of  Judge 
Perry,  a  gentleman,  and  evidently,  from  the  judge's  own 
words,  the  accepted  suitor  of  his  daughter,  could  be  no 
vulgar  highwayman ;  and  yet,  as  he  maintained  a  brisk 
conversation  with  Helen,  and  allowed  me  full  opportuni- 
ty for  close  observation,  the  more  convinced  did  I  be- 
come that  he  was  the  man.  As  she  raised  her  hand,  I 
saw  the  gleam  of  the  diamond  upon  it.  At  last  the 
chain  of  evidence  for  me  was  complete.  What  so  natu- 
ral as  that  her  lover  should  present  this  to  her  ?  I 
thanked  God  that  I  was  to  be  made  the  instrument  by 
which  she  was  to  be  rescued  from  such  a  marriage.  I 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip.      175 

forgot  my  own  private  desire  for  vengeance.  My  love 
for  her  —  this  beautiful  and  innocent  girl  —  was  of  so 
true  a  nature,  that  every  other  consideration  was  sub- 
ordinate to  the  one  for  the  furtherance  of  her  welfare. 
By  a  powerful  effort  I  controlled  my  feelings,  and  assumed 
an  air  of  ease  that  I  could  not  feel. 

"  The  doctor  was  all  animation,  and  talked  at  a  rapid 
rate,  while  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  Helen  so  dull. 
'  By  the  way,  doctor,'  remarked  the  judge,  after  we  had 
left  the  tea-table  and  entered  the  parlor, '  have  you  re- 
covered from  the  accident  you  met  with  a  few  weeks 
ago  ?  Pistol-shots  are  anything  but  pleasant  reminders, 
and  you  had  a  narrow  escape.'  I  was  gazing  directly  at 
him  while  the  judge  spoke,  and  for  an  instant,  even  as  a 
summer  breeze  would  ruffle  a  placid  lake,  a  frown  gath- 
ered upon  his  brow,  and  was  gone.  '  I  am  as  well  as  I 
could  wish  to  be,'  was  the  answer, '  and  have  almost  for- 
gotten the  occurrence.'  Pleading  a  dull  headache,  I  re- 
tired to  my  chamber  at  an  early  hour.  I  wished  to  be 
alone,  that  I  might  take  counsel  with  myself  as  to  the 
course  I  ought  to  pursue,  in  order  to  bring  this  scoun- 
drel and  his  associate  to  justice.  The  longer  I  dwelt 
upon  the  matter,  the  more  convinced  I  became  that  my 
proper  course  was  to  make  the  judge  my  confidant. 
He  was  of  years'  experience  and  discretion,  and  also  a 
deeply  interested  party,  through  his  daughter's  connec- 
tion with  "Wentworth. 

"  I  slept  but  li ttle  that  night,  and  was  in  the  grounds, 
when  my  host  came  out  for  a  stroll  in  the  morning  air, 


176      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip. 

I  knew  that  it  would  yet  be  an  hour  before  the  breakfast- 
bell  would  ring;  therefore,  after  speaking  of  the  beauties 
of  the  morning,  I  took  his  arm  as  if  for  a  promenade,  and 
said, '  If  you  can  spare  me  some  thirty  or  forty  minutes, 
and  will  come  where  we  can  by  no  possibility  be  over- 
heard, I  will  tell  you  what  I  know  is  of  vast  importance  to 
you.  He  looked  surprised,  but  acceded  to  my  request  at 
once,  recommending  the  arbor  already  in  view  as  a  desir- 
able place  for  private  conversation.  "We  seated  ourselves, 
and,  with  but  few  preliminary  remarks,  I  gave  him  a  full 
account  of  my  adventures  since  leaving  Detroit  He 
did  not  once  interrupt  me;  but,  as  I  proceeded,  his  face 
became  more  and  more  ashen,  until,  as  I  concluded  by 
denouncing  the  doctor  as  one  of  my  assailants,  it  was  as 
white  as  that  of  a  corpse. 

"  For  a  minute  after  I  had  ceased  speaking  he  remained 
silent;  then,  drawing  a  long  breath,  he  seemed  to  regain 
command  over  himself,  and  said:  'I  can  but  believe  all 
that  you  have  told  me,  for  there  are  many  circumstances, 
with  which  you  are  evidently  unacquainted,  that  go  to 
corroborate  your  story.  Can  you  remember  the  day  of 
the  month  upon  which  your  murder  was  attempted  ? ' 

" '  The  twenty-second,'  I  replied. 

" 'And on  the  twenty-fourth,'  he  said,  'Dr.  Wentworth 
returned  home  after  an  absence  of  some  days,  in  charge 
of  Hugh  Chapin,  an  intimate  friend  of  his.  He  could 
with  difficulty  sit  upon  his  horse,  and  was  apparently 
suffering  severely.  He  stated  that  he  had  been  injured 
by  -the  accidental  discharge  of  his  pistol,  but  that,  as  the 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Tri-p.      177 

ball  had  only  inflicted  a  flesh-wound  in  the  shoulder,  it 
would  soon  heal.  The  explanation  was  plausible,  and 
no  one  doubted  his  word.' 

" '  "Was  there  any  mark  upon  the  ring  by  which  you 
could  identify  it  ? ' 

"'On  the  inner-side,  below  the  centre-stone,'  I  an- 
swered, '  was  the  letter  P,  in  Roman  characters,  and  above 
it  was  some  fine  scroll-work,  and  close  observation  would 
show  the  name  of  Susie,  in  minute  lettering,  amidst  it; 
any  one  gazing  upon  it  in  an  ordinary  manner  would  foil 
to  perceive  it  My  mother's  maiden  name  was  Susan 
Palmer,  and  this  ring  was  presented  to  her  by  my  father 
previous  to  their  marriage.  I  feel  sure  that  an  inspection 
will  p?ove  my  description  to  be  true,  although  I  have 
not  seen  the  jewel  since  I  lost  it  except  upon  your 
daughter's  hand,' 

" ' I  am  satisfied,'  said  my  companion; '  I  have  seen  the 
initial  P,  as  you  describe  it,  but  as  it  corresponded  with 
my  Helen's  family  name,  I  thought  it  intended  for  it  I 
can  readily  identify  the  larger  of  the  two  men,  and  the 
one  who  inflicted  the  blow  that  nearly  cost  your  life,  in 
the  person  of  a  resident  of  a  farm-house  some  three 
miles  from  us,  one  Hugh  Chapin,  a  bachelor  and  the  al- 
most inseparable  companion  of  Dr.  Wentworth.  I  have 
never  been  pleased  with  this  intimacy,  for  I  have  felt  an 
aversion  to  this  man  from  my  first  knowledge  of  him. 
As  I  could  give  no  reason  for  it,  I  have  said  little  to 
Wentworth  on  the  subject  They  came  here  about  the 
same  time,  four  years  ago,  and  Dr.  W.,  displaying  COn- 


178      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip. 

siderable  skill  in  his  profession,  soon  acquired  a  good 
practice,  and  has  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  the  commu- 
nity. This  Chapin  purchased  the  house  and  farm  he 
now  occupies  soon  after  his  arrival,  and  has  always 
seemed  to  have  the  command  of  money,  although  I  learn 
that  he  is  but  an  indifferent  farmer,  and  often  absent 
from  home  for  weeks  together.  I  employed  Dr.  W.  in 
a  severe  illness  I  had  some  two  years  ago,  and  after  I  re- 
covered he  was  much  at  my  house,  and  Helen  saw  much 
of  him.  He  proposed  for  her  hand,  and  at  first  she 
seemed  inclined  to  reject  his  suit,  but,  thinking  the  match 
a  desirable  one,  I  persuaded  her  not  to  do  so.  I  have 
since  often  fancied  that  perhaps  I  did  wrong  in  thus  using 
my  influence,  as  she  has  since  their  betrothal  seemed  loth 
to  accord  him  the  privileges  of  an  accepted  lover.  His 
profession  has  often  called  him  away,  but  I  now  see  it 
may  have  frequently  afforded  an  excuse  for  an  absence 
in  which  were  performed  deeds  too  dark  even  to  con- 
template. The  sheriff  of  our  county  is  a  brave,  shrewd 
man,  and  I  will  lay  the  facts  of  this  case  before  him,  and 
we  will  devise  the  best  means  of  bringing  these  men  to 
justice.  I  need  not  point  out  to  you  the  wisdom  of  si- 
lence; we  have  cunning  knaves  to  deal  with,  and  must 
use  care,  so  they  may  gain  no  clew  to  our  intentions. 
Knowing  that  you  had  been  intrusted  with  three  hun- 
dred dollars  to  pay  into  my  hands,  I  have  wondered  at 
your  silence  on  the  subject;  but  your  explanation  has 
made  all  plain  at  last.  It  will  be  difficult  to  dissemble 
in  the  presence  of  this  scoundrel,  Wentworth,  I  know; 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip.      179 

yet  for  a  brief  time  we  must  submit  to  the  infliction  of 

his  presence,  and  allow  him  to  visit  Helen  as  heretofore.' 

"  When  we  returned  to  the  house,  my  heart  was  lighter 

than  it  had  been  since  my  arrival  at  X .    I  will  pass 

over  the  record  of  the  next  few  days,  for  nothing  of  im- 
portance took  place.  The  judge  and  myself  held  fre- 
quent consultations  with  the  sheriff  in  my  host's  office; 
care  being  taken  that  these  meetings  should  attract  no 
attention.  The  doctor  was  occupied  with  his  patients, 
as  the  warm  weather  was  developing  disease.  Once 
only  had  his  confederate,  Hugh  Chapin.  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  the  village.  I  had  seen  him  as  he  rode  np 
the  street  to  the  door  of  Dr.  Wentworth's  office,  where 
dismounting,  and  securing  his  horse,  he  entered.  I 
would  have  given  much  to  have  been  a  private  spec- 
tator of  their  interview,  but  only  remained  book  in  hand 
in  my  seat  at  the  window.  You  may  be  sure  I  compre- 
hended nothing  printed  upon  the  page  before  me.  Not 
many  minutes  elapsed  after  Chapin  came  forth  and  rode 
away,  ere  the  sheriff  dropped  in  upon  us.  The  moment 
he  made  his  appearance,  I  saw,  by  the  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
he  had  pleasant  intelligence  to  communicate.  Glancing 
around  to  see  that  we  were  alone,  he  cast  himself  into  a 
chair,  giving  vent  to  a  gratified  chuckle.  'We  have 
them  at  last,'  said  he, '  thanks  to  the  intelligence  of  the 
boy  the  doctor  employs  to  wait  upon  him,  and  whom  I 
frightened  and  bribed  into  playing  the  spy.  A  nice  plot 
of  robbery  has  just  been  concocted  by  the  two  worthies 
closeted  up  yonder.  Old  Seth  Jones  to-day  received  a 


180      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trij>> 

payment  upon  the  farm  he  sold  Thompson,  and  will  take 
it  to  Pollard  whose  place  he  has  purchased;  having  to 
travel  some  twenty  miles  of  bad  road,  it  will  be  dark 
before  he  can  reach  his  destination,  and  Chapin  and 
"Wentworth  are  intent  upon  relieving  him  of  his  money; 
the  rocky  gully  between  Harrison's  and  Thompson's  is 
the  point  selected  for  operations;  and  I,  with  my  men, 
shall  take  care  to  be  there  in  time  to  have  a  hand  in  the 
game.' 

"  That  was  an  anxious  evening  for  me.  I  sat  with 
Helen  and  her  father  until  after  ten,  and,  despite  the 
efforts  we  all  made,  the  conversation  languished.  I  saw 
she  felt  a  weight  upon  her  that  she  could  not  cast  off. 
As  I  gazed  upon  her  face,  while  she  bent  over  some  fem- 
inine employment,  I  could  perceive  the  great  change 
that  had  been  wrought  in  her  in  the  few  weeks  I  had 
known  her.  She  had  grown  thin  and  pale,  and  a  look  of 
suffering  had  taken  the  place  of  one  of  cheerfulness.  I 
asked  myself  if  it  could  be  that  I  had  awakened  her 
love,  and  that  she  had  discovered  this  fact  and  allowed 
her  betrothment  to  Wentworth  to  eat  like  a  canker  at 
her  heart.  I  felt  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  tell  her 
how  dear  she  was  to  me,  and  that  if  she  returned  my 
affection,  all  would  be  well  with  us.  By  a  powerful 
effort,  however,  I  choked  back  the  words  that  trembled 
on  my  lips,  and  retired  to  my  chamber,  where  I  alter- 
nately paced  the  floor  and  sat  by  the  open  window  until 
near  morning.  The  night  was  intensely  dark,  and  I 
could  distinguish  only  the  outline  of  the  trees  upon  the 


The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip.      181 

lawn.  It  was  three  o'clock,  and  a  faint  streak  of  light 
began  to  illumine  the  eastern  horizon,  when  I  at  last 
heard  the  tramp  of  horses  upon  the  bridge  that  crossed 
the  stream  down  the  valley.  I  could  control  my  impa- 
tience no  longer,  and,  opening  my  door,  descended  the 
stairs  with  rapid  feet,  but  the  judge  fully  dressed  was 
before  me  in  the  hall,  proving  that  he,  too,  like  myself, 
had  impatiently  awaited  news  of  the  result  of  the  sher- 
iff's ambuscade.  We  hurried  down  the  street,  and,  in 
the  dull  light  of  the  dawning  day,  met  a  party  of  six 
men  having  Hugh  Chapin  in  charge.  He  was  securely 
bound,  and  riding  upon  a  horse  in  the  midst  of  his  cap- 
tors. I  noted  the  absence  of  "Wentworth  at  once,  and 
felt  the  most  bitter  disappointment,  but  soon  learned  the 
occasion  of  it.  In  an  attempt  to  escape,  he  had  been 
shot  through  the  head,  and  was  then  lying  dead  at  a 
farm-house  near  the  scene  of  action. 

"  I  can  now  condense  into  a  few  sentences  what  more  I 
have  to  relate.  On  being  confronted  with  me,  Chapin 
made  a  full  confession  of  his  own  and  "Went worth's 
crime.  It  was  he  who  struck  me  upon  the  head  as  I 
fired  at  his  companion,  and,  after  binding  up  "Went- 
worth's  wound,  he  robbed  and  then  conveyed  me  to  a 
lonely  part  of  the  stream  and  cast  me  in;  my  long  in- 
sensibility had  cheated  them  into  the  belief  of  my  death. 

"  Helen  made  no  pretext  of  regret  at  the  awful  judg- 
ment that  had  overtaken  her  betrothed;  on  the  contra- 
iy.  her  face  now  wears  an  expression  of  repose  which 
the  dullest  observer  could  not  fail  to  perceive.  Need  I 
16* 


1 82      The  Romance  of  a  Western  Trip. 

add  that  I  had  a  long  conversation  with  her  last  night 
during  which  she  acknowledged  her  affection  for  me, 
and  promised  to  be  my  wife  provided  her  father  sanc- 
tioned our  wishes.  The  judge  has  since  listened  to  my 
petition  with  a  pleased  smile,  and  answered  that  in 
due  time  we  should  be  made  happy. 

"  When  our  nuptials  are  performed,  then  will  end  my 
western  trip  and  its  attending  romance." 


THE  TWO  GHOSTS  OF  NEW  LONDON 
TURNPIKE. 

(183) 


THE  TWO  GHOSTS 

or 

NEW  LONDON  TURNPIKE. 

HEBE  is  a  certain  ancient  and  time-honored  in- 
stitution, which,  in  the  advancement  of  recent 
discoveries  and  the  march  of  modern  improve- 
ments, seems  destined  soon  to  pass  from  the  use, 
and  then,  in  natural  sequence,  from  the  memories 
of  mankind.  For  even  the  highest  type  of  civilization 
is  prone  to  ingratitude,  and  drops  all  thoughts  of  its  best 
agencies  as  soon  as  it  has  outlived  its  absolute  need  of 
them.  Towards  this  Lethean  current,  whose  lazy  waters 
glide  so  silently  and  yet  so  resistlessly  along  the  bor- 
ders of  the  Past,  gradually  undermining  and  crumbling 
away  the  ancient  landmarks  and  the  venerable  institu- 
tions known  and  loved  of  the  former  generations,  the 
whale-ships  are  already  drifting. 

For  year  by  year,  as  they  set  sail  with  their  hardy 
crews,  every  succeeding  voyage  took  them  nearer  to  the 
court  of  the  Ice  King,  the  chill  of  his  breath  grew 
deadlier,  and  the  invasion  of  his  dominions  more  desper- 
ate. But,  lo  !  when  Jack  Tar  was  almost  at  his  wit's 
end,  a  cry  arose  upon  the  prairie,  and  the  disciples  of 

(185) 


1 86  The  two  Ghosts  of 

commerce  dropped  their  harpoons  and  left  their  nets  to 
follow  the  guidance  of  the  new  revelation.  Jets  of  ole- 
aginous wealth  sprang  and  spirted,  and  blessed  was  he 
whose  dish  was  right-side-up  in  this  new  rain  of  pecuni- 
ary porridge.  Instead  of  the  old  launchings  and  weigh- 
ings of  anchors,  came  the  embarkation  of  all  sorts  and 
sizes  of  solid  and  fancy  craft  on  the  inviting  sea  of  spec- 
ulation, and  men  ran  hither  and  thither,  outrivalling 
the  tales  of  the  bygone  voyagers,  by  stories  of  vast 
fortunes  made  in  a  day,  and  of  shipwrecks  as  sad  as  any 
on  the  ocean.  And  so,  in  place  of  dingy  casks  and  creak- 
ing cordage  and  watery  perils,  there  sprang  up  the  reign 
of  pipes  and  drills,  and  for  the  laden  ships,  black  and  oozy 
with  their  slippery  cargo,  we  began  to  have  long  trains  of 
bright  blue  tanks  speeding  over  all  our  western  railways; 
and  the  whaling  vessels,  with  their  smooth,  tapering  sides, 
and  blowsy  crews,  and  complicated  mysteries  of  rigging, 
seem  already  like  forsaken  hulks,  hopelessly  stranded 
upon  the  shores  of  antiquity. 

But  all  this  belongs  to  the  Present,  and  any  such 
prophecy  uttered  in  the  days  with  which  our  story  has 
to  do  would  have  been  regarded  as  the  wildest  of  rav- 
ings. For  then  the  whale-ship  was  a  reality  and  a 
power,  the  terror  of  all  mothers  of  wayward  boys,  and 
the  general  resort  of  reckless  runaways  and  prodigals. 
The  thought  that  it  could  ever  be  superseded  by  any 
undiscovered  agency  had  not  yet  made  its  way  into  the 
heads  of  even  the  sage  prognosticates  who  studied  the 
prophets  and  the  apocalypse,  and  were  able  to  dispose  of 


New  London  Turnpike.  187 

all  the  beasts  and  dragons,  and  to  assign  them  appropri- 
ate places  in  the  future,  with  the  utmost  certainty  and 
satisfaction. 

It  is  certain  that  no  such  forebodings  startled  the 
complacency  of  two  young  men  who  sat,  in  the  gathering 
twilight  of  a  mild  spring  evening,  on  a  fragment  of 
drift-wood  in  a  little  cove  of  Uew  London  harbor,  with 
the  waves  sweeping  up  almost  to  their  feet,  and  the 
western  sky  still  flushed  with  the  departing  glory  of 
sunset. 

They  were  a  stout,  bronzed,  muscular  couple,  loosely 
clad  in  the  common  sailor-suits  of  the  period,  and  both 
with  the  shrewd,  resolute  cast  of  countenance  that  dis- 
tinguished the  irrepressible  Yankee  then  no  less  than 
now.  The  darker  of  the  two  was  the  more  attractive, 
for  he  had  the  jolly  twinkling  eye,  and  gayly  infectious 
air  that  goes  with  the  high  animal  temperament,  and 
always  carries  a  bracing  tonic  with  it  like  the  sea- 
breeze.  Wherever  John  Avery  came,  all  the  evil  spir- 
its of  dulness  and  mopes  and  blues,  that  conspire  so 
fearfully  for  the  misery  of  mankind,  had  to  give  way, 
and  one  burst  of  his  spontaneous  merriment  would  ex- 
orcise the  whole  uncanny  troop.  John  was  a  born  sail- 
or, with  all  the  dashing  frankness,  and  generous,  hearty 
temper  characteristic  of  the  class,  and  not  deficient  in 
the  faculty  for  getting  into  scrapes  that  is  also  an  invari- 
able endowment  of  his  prototypes. 

The  other  was  a  less  open  face,  sharper  in  its  outlines, 
and  with  more  angles  than  curves.  Had  it  been  less 


1 88  The  tivo  Ghosts  of 

kindly,  it  might  have  been  the  face  of  a  rascal,  and  yet 
an  artist  could  easily  have  idealized  it  into  that  of  a 
hero.  For  all  these  variations  and  contrasts  of  charac- 
teristic expression,  that  have  such  influence  among  us, 
are,  after  all,  wonderfully  slight  affairs,  and  a  few  touch- 
es either  way,  upon  the  vast  majority  of  faces,  would 
give  a  seraph  or  a  demon  at  the  shortest  notice.  The 
bright,  plump  countenance  of  Jack  was  an  open  book, 
known  and  read  of  all  men,  while  that  of  his  cousin 
Philo  was  a  study  far  more  perplexing,  and  in  the  end 
less  satisfactory.  But  the  conversation  of  the  two  was 
sufficiently  plain. 

"  Sails  on  Thursday,  does  she,  Phil  ?  "  said  the  cheerful 
voice  of  John  as  his  practised  eye  sought  out  a  certain 
ship  from  among  the  crowd  of  vessels  in  the  harbor. 

"  All  hands  aboard  at  nine  o'clock's  the  order,"  re- 
plied Philo,  taking  off  his  cap,  and  turning  his  face  to  the 
wind. 

"  And  the  Sally  Ann  don't  sail  till  Saturday.  I  say 
Phil,  old  fellow,  I  wish  we  were  going  together," 
cried  John  with  one  of  his  bursts. 

"It's  better  as  'tis,"  said  Philo,  thoughtfully.  "  There's 
a  better  chance  for  one  of  us  to  come  back,  you  know, 
than  if  we  were  in  the  same  ship." 

" '  Come  bacfc.'  Why,  of  course  we  shall  come  back,  — 
that  is,  I  hope  so,  both  of  us.  That  wasn't  what  I 
meant.  I'd  like  you  for  a  shipmate,  —  that's  all,"  was  the 
eager  response. 

"  Yes,  —  I  understand,"  answered  Philo.    "  We  shan't 


New  London  Turnpike.  189 

both  come  home,  of  course;  but  there's  hopes  for  both  of 
us,  and  a  pretty  strong  chance  for  one  of  us  at  least." 

And  then  a  seriousness  fell  upon  the  cousins,  and  for 
many  minutes  they  sat  and  watched  the  tide  creeping 
up  to  them  like  the  lapping,  hungry  tongue  of  some  slow 
monster,  thinking  such  thoughts  as  will  sometimes  come 
unbidden  to  the  heart  of  youth,  and  become  more  and 
more  intrusive  and  importunate  as  we  grow  older. 

These  boys  were  offshoots  of  a  sturdy  Puritan  stock, 
and  the  pluck  and  backbone  of  their  ancestry  suffered 
no  degeneracy  in  them.  John  had  been  an  orphan  from 
infancy,  and  had  grown  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  loving 
kindness  and  tender  mercy  under  the  auspices  of  his 
Aunt  Betsy,  —  Philo's  mother.  She  it  was,  who,  in  view 
of  his  orphanage,  had  winked  at  his  boyish  misdemean- 
ors, indulged  his  naturally  gay  disposition  in  every  way 
that  her  strict  and  somewhat  barren  orthodoxy  allowed, 
and  when  his  sea-going  propensities  could  no  longer  be 
controlled  by  the  mild  influences  of  her  molasses  gin- 
gerbread and  sweet  cider,  she  had  made  him  a  liberal 
outfit  of  flannel  shirts  and  blue  mixed  hose,  and,  tucking 
a  Bible  into  the  corner  of  his  chest,  bade  him  God-speed 
on  his  first  voyage. 

It  was  with  some  surprise  that  she  saw  him  come 
back  from  a  three  months'  cruise,  with  no  more  serious 
damage  than  a  scar  across  his  forehead ;  but  still  she  felt 
reproached  at  the  sight  of  it,  and  on  Jack's  next  start 
rectified  her  previous  neglect,  by  sending  Philo  along 
with  him  in  the  capacity  of  mentor  and  protector,  —  an 
17 


190  The  two  Ghosts  of 

office  which  she,  in  the  devotion  of  her  heart,  would 
motet  joyfully  have  undertaken  herself  if  the  art  and 
practice  of  navigation  could  have  been  adapted  so  as 
to  admit  of  the  services  of  an  elderly  lady.  But  becom- 
ing convinced  of  the  utter  impracticability  of  this  plan,  she 
wisely  settled  herself  down  to  be  comfortable  with  tea- 
drinking  and  knitting-work,  with  great  confidence  in 
Philo's  sobriety  and  force  of  character,  as  applied  to  pre- 
serve her  darling  Jack  from  harm;  for  Aunt  Betsy 
like  many  other  excellent  people,  was  not  free  from  "fa- 
voritism, and  her  adopted  son  was  the  child  of  her  affec- 
tions, while  Philo  had  the  secondary  place,  and  was  ex- 
pected to  consider  it  his  highest  happiness  to  fiddle  for 
Jack's  dancing,  and  otherwise  to  hold  the  candle  in  a 
general  way  for  the  benefit  and  pleasure  of  that  superior 
being.  Had  Jack  been  less  jolly  and  generous,  or  Philo 
less  amiable  and  forbearing,  this  maternal  arrangement 
would  have  been  a  fruitful  source  of  jealousy  and  con- 
tention; but  the  two  natures  were  so  fortunately  bal- 
anced that  even  the  one-sided  weight  of  Aunt  Betsy's 
partiality  worked  no  such  derangement  of  the  family 
peace,  as  might  have  been  supposed.  The  boys  had 
made  three  short  voyages  together,  and  were  now  about 
shipping  for  their  first  long  absence  in  different  Vessels 
only  because  Philo's  superior  education  and  business 
aptitude  qualified  him  for  the  position  of  supercargo, 
which  had  been  offered  him  on  board  the  Skylark. 

Philo  was  already  developing  the  great  Yankee  trait 
of  penny -catching,  for  even  then  he  had  saved  quite  a 


New  London  Turnpike.  191 

pretty  sum  out  of  the  very  moderate  pay  of  a  foremast 
man  in  those  times,  and  this,  in  addition  to  his  patrimo- 
nial inheritance  of  a  few  hundred  dollars,  made  a  nice 
nest-egg  for  the  fortune  that  he  hoped  to  realize  in  late 
life.  Jack,  too,  had  his  property  interest,  for  he  had  just 
come  to  man's  estate  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  and  his  little 
property,  carefully  hoarded,  and  with  its  due  interest 
had  been,  only  the  day  previous,  paid  into  his  hands  in 
good  gold,  accompanied  by  much  sound  advice  and  the 
warmest  good  wishes  from  his  benignant  guardian, 
'Squire  Tupper,  who,  thanks  to  Aunt  Betsy's  interposi- 
tion had  found  him  the  most  dutiful  and  least  trouble- 
some of  wards. 

Philo  renewed  the  conversation  by  inquiring  whether 
Jack  had  thought  of  any  particular  mode  of  investment, 
and  stating  his  own  intention  of  purchasing  an  interest 
in  the  Skylark,  if  on  his  return  it  should  appear  ad- 
visable. But  the  former  topic  appeared  to  push  itself 
uneasily  uppermost,  and  he  soon  came  abruptly  back 
to  it,  — 

"I  shall  do  that  thing  if  I  live  to  see  home  again; 
and,  if  anything  should  happen  that  I  don't,  I  want  my 
money  to  go  to  you,  Jack,  except  half  the  income,  and 
that  I  want  to  have  settled  on  mother  as  long  as  she 
lives." 

"  You'd  better  say  all  the  income,  and  the  principal 
too,  for  that  matter,  Phil,"  cried  the  hearty  Jack,  with 
a  little  break  in  his  voice  at  the  last  words. 

"  No,"  replied  the  cousin,  soberly.    "  There's  enough 

.• 


192  The  two  Ghosts  of 


besides  to  keep  the  old  lady  comfortable  as  long  as  she 
lives,  and  more  would  only  worry  her.  If  she  gets 
something  to  show  that  I  didn't  forget  her,  it'll  be  better 
than  if  she  had  it  all  to  take  care  of;  and  she'll  be  just 
as  well  suited  to  have  it  go  to  you." 

"  But  think  of  my  getting  what  Aunt  Betsy  ought  to 
have,"  remonstrated  Jack,  sturdily. 

"  It's  best,"  said  Philo. 

"  And  to  hear  you  talk  as  if  you  was  bound  straight 
for  Davy  Jones'  locker,"  pursued  Jack. 

"  I  shan't  go  any  straighter  for  talking  about  it,  as  I 
know  of,"  answered  Philo,  looking  steadily  towards  the 
dim  horizon  as  if  his  fate  lay  somewhere  between  the 
water  and  the  sky. 

"  Well,  then,"  shouted  the  impulsive  Jack,  "  if  it  must 
be  so,  I'm  glad  I  can  match  you  at  the  other  end  of  the 
same  rope.  You're  as  likely  to  come  home  as  I  am, 
and,  if  I'm  never  heard  from,  all  I've  got  shall  go  to 
you." 

"  Then  we'd  better  make  our  wills  in  form,  if  that's 
your  wish,"  said  Philo,  rising  from  the  log. 

"We'll  make  all  fast  to-morrow,"  remarked  Jack, 
cheerfully ;  "  though  it  makes  one  feel  queer  to  be  doing 
such  business  at  our  age." 

"  It  can't  hurt  anything;  and  we're  no  more  likely  to 
meet  with  bad  luck  for  having  things  in  ship-shape,"  re- 
plied Philo,  as  they  walked  up  towards  the  little  town, 
whose  twinkling  lights  winked  like  fireflies  out  of  the 
darkness. 

»  I 


New  London  Turnpike.  193 

"Let's  do  it  to-night,  and  have  it  over,"  exclaimed 
Jack,  who  found  an  unpleasant  creeping  sensation  gain- 
ing upon  him  as  he  dwelt  on  the  subject. 

"  Well,"  said  Philo. 

The  cousins  turned  into  the  main  street  of  the  village, 
now  a  busy  mart  of  business,  but  in  those  days  broad 
and  grassy,  with  a  row  of  respectable  gambrel-roofed 
houses,  each  with  its  liberal  garden  at  the  side.  Pre- 
eminent in  respectability  was  the  abode  of  'Squire  Tup- 
per,  with  its  large,  clean  yard,  small,  patchwork-looking 
windows,  and  ponderous  brass  knocker,  which  disclosed 
the  terrific  head  of  some  nondescript  animal  in  most 
menacing  attitude.  Upon  this  brazen  effigy  Jack 
sounded  a  vigorous  rap,  since  'Squire  Tupper  was  the 
prime  magnate  and  authority  of  the  small  town,  in  all' 
matters  requiring  legal  adjustment;  and  any  well-in- 
structed resident  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  hav- 
ing a  funeral  without  the  minister  as  of  making  a  will 
without  the  advice  of  the  'squire. . 

The  summons  was  answered  by  a  pretty  blonde  girl, 
dressed  in  the  nicest  of  blue  stuff  gowns,  the  whitest  of 
muslin  tuckers,  and  with  her  pretty  feet  displayed  to 
advantage  by  fine  clocked  stockings  and  neat  morocco 
shoes.  All  these  little  matters  and  her  dainty  air  gave 
her  the  appear*ance  of  a  petted  kitten,  or,  rather,  of  some 
small,  ornamental  image,  made  of  cream  candy,  and 
kept  in  a  Chinese  doll-house. 

She  turned  rosy  at  sight  of  Jack,  who  came  instantly 
out  of  his  solemn  mood,  and,  in  the  frank,  saucy  way 
17* 


1 94  The  two  Ghosts  of 

habitual  to  him,  swung  his  arm  around  the  neat  waist, 
and,  spite  of  some  tiny  remonstrances  and  vain  struggles, 
planted  a  big  sailor  kiss  right  in  the  centre  of  the  de- 
mure mouth.  All  this  was  natural  enough;  for,  besides 
being  the  'squire's  ward  and  connected  in  that  sort  of 
cousinhood  which  extends  to  the  forty-ninth  degree  of 
consanguinity,  Jack  had  now  regularly  "  kept  company  " 
with  Molly  for  several  months,  and  all  his  Sunday 
nights  on  shore  were  piously  devoted  to  "  settin'  up  " 
with  her  in  the  prim,  sanded  best  parlor,  where  it  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  he  abstained  totally  from  such 
"  refreshment "  as  Mr.  Sam  Weller  was  accustomed  to 
indulge  when  opportunity  offered. 

But  his  demonstrativeness  served  to  discompose  Mol- 
ly's ladyhood  on  this  occasion;  and  the  presence  of 
Philo  with  his  business-like  face  added  so  much  scandal 
that  she  disengaged  herself  as  quickly  as  possible  from 
Jack's  audacious  grasp,  and,  with  such  dignity  as  a 
white  kitten  might  assume  in  the  presence  of  two  in- 
trusive pups,  ushered  them  into  the  family  "keepin'- 
room,"  and  withdrew,  as  if  she  wished  it  understood  that 
she  washed  her  hands  of  them  and  their  kind  from  that 
time  forth.  But  Jack  slipped  out  after  her,  and  prob- 
ably made  peace;  for  they  returned  together,  —  he  very 
brisk  and  shining,  and  she  blushing  like  Aurora. 

Philo,  however,  meant  business,  and  said  as  much  in 
plain  terms,  that  set  Miss  Molly  into  a  perfect  maze  of 
conjecture  as  she  went  to  call  the  'squire.  Her  only  so- 
lution of  the  mystery  was  that  Jack  had  now  come  for 


New  London  Turnpike.  195 

the  momentous  pop,  toward  which  events  had  been 
tending ;  and  that  Philo  had  accompanied  him  in  the  char- 
acter of  second.  She  felt  a  little  piqued  that  she  had 
not  been  able  to  bring  him  to  the  point  herself;  but  then 
it  was  certainly  very  straightforward  in  him  to  come 
right  to  her  father  in  that  way;  and  so  the  little  lady 
rushed  out  to  the  wood-pile  in  a  perfect  flutter  of  deli- 
cious perplexity,  and  imparted  the  fact  that  the  two 
young  men  had  called  on  business,  with  such  decided  em- 
phasis that  the  'squire  immediately  took  the  cue,  and  pre- 
pared himself  to  be  especially  benignant  and  paternal. 

Relieved  of  Molly's  inspiring  presence,  Jack  felt  all 
the  solemnity  of  the  affair  returning  upon  him,  and,  as  is 
usual  with  these  strong,  mercurial  natures,  it  loomed  be- 
fore him  more  and  more  grim  and  ghastly,  till,  by  the  time 
that  the  'squire  made  his  appearance,  he  had  become  al- 
most persuaded  that  his  last  hour  was  really  approach- 
ing. This  state  of  mind  imparted  to  his  countenance  an 
expression  of  such  touching  melancholy  as  made  the 
old  gentleman  take  him  for  the  most  despairing  of  lovers, 
and  wrought  upon  his  sympathies  amazingly. 

'Squire  Tupper  was  the  embodiment  of  magisterial 
dignity,  owlish  wisdom,  and  universal  benevolence. 
With  a  fine,  showy  person  that  was  in  itself  the  guaran- 
ty of  unimpeachable  respectability,  he  had  gone  on  in 
life,  and  come  to  hold  the  position  of  an  oracle;  not  on 
account  of  anything  he  ever  said,  but  because  of  a  gen- 
eral way  that  he  had  of  looking  as  if  he  could  on  all  occa- 
sions say  a  great  deal  if  he  chose,  which  is  a  sure  way  to 


196  The  i-ssv  Gkosls  of 


the  disBmetiam  of  being  iMJiiiml  mmailililj 
weB4nmtmed,  though  it  is  one  that  is  greatly  negfecsed 
cfbtte  years.  The  wo^  laughs  at  witty  people,  and 
despises  them;  and  {Square  Tupper  was  a  bright  exam- 
pfe  of  the  truth  that  it  takes  a  thoroughly  don  man  to 
be  profa«ndly  respected. 

He  now  sainted  the  cousins  with  grare  urbanity,  and 
dcfibtxateiy  placed  hfe  stately  fonn  in  the  arm-diair, 
taking  a  fresh  coat  of  tobacco  as  a  ptdmunazy  to  bust- 
•eas.  IT  MoCy  h*d  enoosh  of  mother  ETC  about  her  to 
cavse  her  to  peep  ad  listen  behind  the  door,  we  don't 
know  as  it  umtxnm  n&.  We  don't  say  she  did;  bat 
mould  be  slow  to  take  the  responsibility  of  declaring 
that  she  didn't.  Toong  ladies,  who  may  chance  to  pe- 
xro  this  TOiacKKis  history,  are  at  liberty  to  decide  this 
pcint  according  to  their  own  estimate  of  the  temptation. 
and  the  amagt  *""•••••»  power  of  resistance. 

Jack  plunged  desperately  into  the  middle  of  the  sob- 
jegi^aad.  them  tried  to  awmt  oat  towaid  the  atoodoctioii. 

~  We  thos^hl  we'd  atop  fax  sir,  this  erening.  as  we're 
made  up  our  minds  to  do  A  certain  thing;  and  it  seemed 
as  if  we—  I  mean  I—  felt  as  if  I  should  like  to  have  it 
done,  and  <mr  with." 

*  I  see,  I  see,"  replied  the  'squire,  with  the  utmost  con- 
for  Jack's  <  inlai  i  •HHiir  nit  and  the  delicate 


natore  of  his  ""*•••*     -TonVe  spoken  to  MoDy  about 
it,  I  suppose  ?  »  be  added,  encoungingiy. 
K  Why,  no.    Didn't  think  it  was  worth  white,  m  jam 


Nem  London  Turnpike.  1917 

"Ah,  I  see!  Jes*  so,  jaf  BO !  Very  thoughtful  in 
yon,  Jack, — very,  indeed.77  The  'squire  paused,  and 
took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  nodding  Ms  satisfaction,  and  pro- 
ceeded: tt  If  s  highly  gratifying  to  me,  Jack,  to  see  you 
so  thoughtful  as  to  come  to  me  first  on  this  business; 
though  it  isn't  what  all  young  men  would  do.  Fm  gmd 
to  see  that  you  respect  the  parental  relation,  and  re- 
spect my  feenugs,  though  you've  no  parents  of  your 
own;  stfll  you've  had  an  exrritent  h™gmg  up  by  your 
Aunt  Betsy,  and  Fve  tried,  in  my  humble  way,  to  do 
what  I  could."  (Graceful  self-abasement  w»  one  of  tine 
'squire's  strong  points.)  «•  And  now  I  say  you've  acted 
just  right,  because  I  am  better  capable  of  judging  what 
is  for  Molly's  good  than  she  can  be  herself;  and,  of 
course,  Fm  the  person  to  be  first  consulted:  and  ifs 
most  creditable  and  gratifying"— 

"Why,  it  isn't  about  Matty,  at  aH!"  cried  Jack  in 
bewilderment. 

O  happy,  doting  pride  of  fatherhood !  What  a  fall- 
ing off  was  there,  and  what  bbmknew,  followed  by  con- 
fusion, overspread  'Squire  Tupperfr  countruaurr,  as  the 
nature  of  his  blander  and  its  extreme  awkwardness  be- 
came apparent  to  his  puzzled  faculties. 

«BTo— no— certainly  not— not  inthe  kast !"  gasped 
be,  catching  after  his  dignity,  as  a  man  dimming  grasps 
at  straws. 

"•We  came  to  see  if  you  could  attend  to  making  out 
our  witts,  tikis  evening,0  said  Phikx 

The  'squire  looked  from  one  to  tine  other  with 


198  The  two  Ghosts  of 

dazed  incredulity  that  both  the  young  men  applied 
themselves  to  explanations  which  brought  his  senses 
back  into  the  world  of  facts. 

"  Yes,  yes,  certainly,  —  very  creditable  and  prudent 
in  you  to  wish  to  make  things  all  snug  before  you  go. 
Excellent  idea;  though  you're  both  rather  youngish  to 
be  doing  such  business.  Still  it's  highly  gratifying  to 
see  you  take  it  up  in  this  way,  —  certainly,  — just  let  me 
get  the  materials."  And  the  'squire  plunged  with  great 
eagerness  into  the  subject,  briskly  opening  an  old-fash- 
ioned secretary,  and  setting  out  upon  the  table  a  heavy 
stone  inkstand,  a  sand-box,  some  large  sheets  of  paper, 
and  a  bunch  of  quills ;  and  then,  being  quite  restored  to 
his  accustomed  equilibrium,  begged  them  in  the  most 
impressive  magisterial  manner,  to  state  their  wishes,  and 
commenced  making  his  pen,  while  Philo  explained  the 
subject-matter  of  the  conversation  previousty  recorded. 

"  I  see,  I  see  I "  said  the  'squire,  deliberately,  when  he 
had  elaborated  the  point  of  the  quill,  and  tried  it  repeat- 
edly on  his  thumb-nail.  And,  without  further  ado,  he 
drew  his  chair  to  the  table,  and  headed  the  page  in  a 
large,  round  hand:  "  The  Last  Will  and  Testament  of 
Philo  Avery;  "  following  it  up  with  the  regular  formula 
for  such  cases  made  and  provided. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  Amen. 

"  I,  Philo  Avery,  of  the  town  of  I^ew  London  and 
state  of  Connecticut,  being  of  sound  mind  and  memory, 
and  considering  the  uncertainty  of  this  frail  and  transi- 
tory life,  do,  therefore,  make,  advise,  publish,  and  declare 
this  to  be  my  last  will  and  testament,"  etc. 


New  London  Turn-pike.  199 

Scratch  —  scratch,  went  the  'squire's  pen,  interrupted 
only  by  occasional  dips  into  the  ink,  while  the  two  testa- 
tors sat  and  looked  on  in  unwinking  silence,  and  the 
tall  candles  flared  and  sputtered  as  their  sooty  wicks 
dropped  down  into  the  tallow.  Hardly  had  this  hap- 
pened when  Molly  tripped  shyly  into  the  room,  bringing 
a  pair  of  silver  snuffers  on  a  little  tray,  and  with  one 
dexterous  nip  relieved  each  smoking  luminary  of  its  in- 
cumbrance,  at  the  same  moment  casting  her  demure 
eyes  upon  the  page  which  her  father  was  now  covering 
with  sand.  If  she  was  not  ignorant  of  the  old  gentle- 
man's palpable  "blunder  (and  remember  the  narrator 
takes  no  responsibility  on  that  point),  she  was  certainly 
very  innocent  and  unconscious,  and,  as  Jack  looked  at 
her,  he  anathematized  his  own  stupidity  in  not  taking  the 
opportunity  which  the  'squire  had  so  temptingly  opened 
for  him,  and  determined  that  he  would  rectify  the  omis- 
sion spedflily. 

Meanwhile,  the  quill  travelled  over  another  broad 
page,  and  the  documents  were  ready  for  the  signatures. 
And  then  it  was  necessary  that  Molly  and  the  hired- 
man  should  be  called  in  as  witnesses,  and  the  former  made 
very  wide  eyes  of  wonderment  (little  budget  of  deceit !) 
when  she  learned  the  nature  of  the  papers,  and  wrote  her 
name  in  a  tiny,  cramped  hand,  with  many  little  quirks 
like  the  legs  of  spiders,  and  this  was  supplemented  by 
the  laborious  autograph  of  Silas  Plumb,  the  teamster,  a 
young  man  of  limited  education  and  bushy  hair. 

And  when  all  this  was  done,  the  cousins  exchanged 


2OO  The  two  Ghosts  of 

the  wills,  and  tucked  them  into  their  respective  side- 
pockets,  feeling  greatly  relieved,  and  the  'squire,  after  re- 
ceiving his  fee  in  a  benevolent,  deprecating  manner,  as 
if  it  was  quite  a  trial  to  bis  feelings,  but  must  be  under- 
gone as  a  duty,  brought  .jut  some  excellent  port  wine, 
and  pledged  them  both  in  liberal  glasses,  with  wishes 
for  their  prosperous  voyage  and  safe  return.  And  at 
the  mention  of  this  sorrowful  topic,  poor  Molly's  spirits 
suffered  such  charming  timid  depression,  and  were  af- 
fected to  such  a  degree  that  when  Philo  took  leave,  it 
was  necessary  for  Jack  to  lag  behind,  and  finally  allow 
him  to  go  away  alone,  since  nothing  else  would  serve  to 
restore  the  languishing  damsel  to  comparative  cheerful- 
ness. At  this  interval  of  time,  and  without  the  advan- 
tage of  being  an  eye-witness,  it  would  be  a  vain  attempt 
for  anybody  to  undertake  a  minute  account  of  how, 
standing  in  the  low  "  stoop,"  with  its  little  round  posts 
like  drumsticks,  and  huge  tubs  of  thrifty,  rough-leaved 
plants,  Molly  made  herself  perfectly  irresistible  with 
her  shy  regrets,  and  how,  when  her  grief  and  apprehen- 
sion at  once  welled  up  from  her  heart  to  her  face,  in  the 
midst  of  bashful  palpitations  and  broken  sobs,  her 
proud  little  head  wilted  weakly  over  on  Jack's  shoulder, 
and  she  begged  him  not  to  go  sail-ail-ailing  away,  and 
be  drownd-ed-ed  —  and  have  that  horrid  old  will-ill-ill 
for  his  sole  memento.  Neither  would  it  be  easy  to  por- 
tray how  Jack  soothed  and  petted,  with  all  the  little  en- 
dearments that  are  such  delightful  realities  for  the  mo- 
jnent,  but  so  silly  a,nd  absurd  to  remember,  and  finally, 


New  London  Turnpike.  201 

when  nothing  else  would  answer,  committed  himself 
past  all  remedy,  as  what  man  could  help  doing,  with 
such  a  dainty  little  figure  leaning  close,  and  the  sweetest 
of  mournful  faces  buried  in  his  collar.  And  then,  there 
were  more  tears  and  kisses,  and  at  the  end  a  long,  quiet 
talk  of  all  that  should  be  realized  when  that  one  voyage 
was  over,  and  he  should  be  ready  to  resign  his  sea-far- 
ing life. 

At  last  Jack  tore  himself  away  from  all  these  en- 
chantments, and  rushed  home  for  a  couple  of  hours  of 
delicious  dreamy  tumbling  about  in  bed  before  day- 
light, which  seemed  to  come  much  sooner  than  he  had 
calculated,  and  aroused  him  to  complete  his  preparations 
for  departure. 

Everybody  knows  what  a  queer,  altered  aspect  cer- 
tain actions  and  feelings  take  after  one  night,  and  the 
dawning  of  the  clear,  practical  light  of  the  next  day. 
Ideas  that  have  seemed  most  urgent  and  actual  will  at 
such  times  appear  extremely  unreal  and  visionary,  and 
be  quite  eclipsed  in  interest  by  the  trifles  that  come  in 
between  and  demand  immediate  attention.  Jack  found 
it  so,  in  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  next  day,  what  with 
the  preparations  for  sailing,  and  all  the  little  matters 
that  such  a  start  involves.  The  doings  of  the  previous 
night  seemed  quite  distant  and  foreign  to  his  own  per- 
sonality; and  it  needed  the  big-folded  document,  with 
its  formal  phraseology  and  crisp  rattle,  to  convince  him 
that  the  acts  of  the  evening  before  had  not  been  a  rather 
memorable  dream.  Once,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  he 

18 


2O2  The  two  Ghosts  of 

took  out  the  will,  read  it  hastily  over,  and  then  tucked  it 
away  in  a  little  brass-bound  box,  that  answered  for  him 
the  same  purpose  that  a  Herring's  Patent  does  for  pru- 
dent young  men  of  the  present  day. 

But  however  it  might  be  about  the  wills,  and  the 
chances  that  the  Great  Reaper  should  overtake  either  of 
the  cousins  before  the  return-voyage,  Molly  was  a  pres- 
ent and  delightful  reality ;  and  that  very  evening  Jack 
made  her  another  visit,  justified  'Squire  Tupper's  pre- 
sumption of  the  former  occasion,  and  amid  Molly's  tears 
and  kisses,  and  big  sighs  and  little  sobs,  wished  most 
heartily  that  the  Sally  Ann  had  made  her  cruise,  and 
that  the  future  programme  was  ready  to  be  carried  into 
effect.  But  then,  he  might  be  lucky  enough  to  pay  for 
waiting;  and  if  anything  should  happen  to  Philo  in  the 
interval,  —  of  course,  he  hoped  there  wouldn't,  poor  fel- 
low; but  accidents  will  happen,  and  if  anything  so  sad 
should  occur,  why,  then  he  would  be  in  a  position  to 
keep  Molly  in  the  style  she  deserved  and  was  accustomed 
to;  and  to  buy  out  a  share  in  some  nice  little  craft,  that 
should  bring  home  to  them  treasures  as  rich,  after  their 
kind,  as  those  that  the  ships  of  Tarshish  brought  to 
King  Solomon.  But  all  this  was  mere  conjecture,  an,d 
Jack  renounced  it  with  a  feeling  of  reproach  for  having 
indulged  it  even  for  a  moment. 

The  next  day  the  Skylark  sailed,  Philo  starting  away 
from  the  old  house  with  his  chest  on  a  wheelbarrow,  and 
leaving  Aunt  Betsy  on  the  door-step,  with  her  lips 
pressed  very  tight,  and  all  the  grim  fatalism  of  her  relig- 


New  London  Turnpike.  203 

lous  faith  making  stern  struggle  against  the  natural 
motherly  instincts  of  her  heart.  For  she  did  love 
Philo;  and  even  the  reflection  that  he  wasn't  going  to 
wait  upon  Jack,  according  to  his  established  usage,  was 
lost  in  genuine  grief  for  his  departure. 

Jack  rowed  out  to  the  ship  with  him;  and  it  would  be 
doing  both  an  injustice  to  ask  whether  the  cordial  re- 
grets of  their  separation  were  mingled  with  any  remem- 
brance on  the  part  of  either,  that  in  case  they  should 
never  meet  again,  one  of  them  would  be  a  few  hundred 
dollars  richer  for  the  death  of  the  other. 

On  the  morning  of  May  5th,  1805,  the  Sally  Ann 
sailed  out  of  New  London  harbor.  On  the  evening  of 
September  12th,  1808,  she  dropped  anchor  in  the  very 
spot  which  she  had  left  three  years  and  four  months  be- 
fore. 

The  first  object,  aside  from  the  familiar  shore,  that 
met  Jack's  recognition,  as  they  sailed  up  the  bay,  was 
the  ship  Skylark,  arrived  just  six  weeks  previously,  and 
the  first  man  he  saw,  as  he  stepped  on  land,  was  his 
Cousin  Philo.  There  could  hardly  have  been  a  more  cor- 
dial greeting  than  that  which  the  bystanders  witnessed; 
and  yet  a  close  look  into  the  heart  of  each  might  have 
disclosed  a  shade  of  something  strangely  inconsistent 
with  the  outward  semblance  of  happiness  that  both 
wore. 

For  three  years  is  a  long  time  for  some  thoughts  and 
impulses  to  mature  in,  and  day  after  day  out  at  sea,  with 


204  The  two  Ghosts  of 

• 

only  the  monotony  of  the  ever-undulating  waves,  and 
the  easily  exhausted  resources  of  variety  to  be  found  on 
shipboard,  give  great  opportunity  for  brooding,  and 
such  speculations  as  come  naturally  to  people  who  are  idle 
and  isolated.  Seeds  of  the  devil's  planting  possess  a  pecu- 
liarly vital  and  fructifying  property  and  are  sure  to  come 
to  maturity  sooner  or  later.  One  can  easily  imagine  the 
thoughts  that  might  have  come  to  these  two  young  men 
in  the  long,  solitary  watches,  come  perhaps  like  sugges- 
tions from  the  world  outside,  wafted  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind,  or  caught  up  in  chance  hints  and  scraps  of  sailor  talk, 
but  coming  nevertheless  straight  from  the  God  of  mam- 
mon, and,  with  their  slow  canker  working  a  steady  and 
sure  corruption.  And  yet,  neither  had  probably  ever  al- 
lowed these  thoughts  to  take  any  such  positive  form  as 
to  be  capable  of  recognition.  They  were  always,  even 
in  the  moments  of  their  strongest  domination,  veiled  in 
some  perfectly  innocent  mental  expression,  such  as  if 
anything  should  happen,  or  supposing  such  an  affliction, 
—  meditations  which  the  most  sensitive  conscience  could 
not  possibly  challenge,  but  which  had  a  way  of  creeping 
in  upon  the  minds  of  these  two  far  oftener  than  they 
would  have  done,  but  for  the  existence  of  the  wills. 

Philo  had  an  inborn  love  of  lucre  that  was  strong 
enough  to  give  spice  and  fascination  to  these  ponderings 
of  possibilities,  while  Jack  was  constantly  under  the 
stimulus  of  his  fondness  for  Molly,  and  desire  to  make  a 
handsome  provision  for  her.  And  by  these  means,  this 
indefinite  if,  acknowledged  at  first  only  as  a  remote  and 


New  London  Turnpike.  205 

dreaded  contingency,  gradually  took  to  itself  substance, 
and  began  to  figure  in  the  plans  and  projects  of  each  as 
if  it  were  almost  a  positive  certainty.  Always,  however, 
with  the  proviso  that  it  was  a  very  sad  possibility,  to  be  de- 
voutly deplored  and  hoped  against,  but  still  accepted  and 
treated  as  an  actuality.  And  such  an  effectual  devil- 
trap  did  this  if  prove  to  be,  that  this  meeting  of  the  two 
cousins  was,  in  the  hidden  consciousness  of  each,  in  the 
nature  of  an  unexpected  shock  that  made  a  sudden  scat- 
tering of  many  schemes  and  purposes,  all  based,  to  a 
great  extent  upon  that  wicked  and  fallacious  if.  And 
while  all  this  was  lurking  under  the  demonstrative 
warmth  and  gladness  of  their  greeting,  probably  no 
greater  surprise  nor  horror  could  have  befallen  either 
than  to  have  had  the  veil  of  his  self-deception  for  one 
moment  lifted,  and  to  have  had  a  single  glimpse  at  the 
truth  within  him,  or  a  single  intimation  of  the  lives  that 
they  two  should  lead  through  the  next  half  century 
under  the  evil  consciousness  of  that  ever  impending  if. 

But  nothing  of  this  supernatural  character  befell 
them,  and  after  a  few  warm  greetings  among  the  crowd 
on  the  pier,  Jack  hastened  toward  the  town.  There 
were  some  changes  in  the  familiar  streets;  buildings 
newly  built  or  altered,  signs  changed,  and  a  barber's 
pole  freshly  painted.  All  these  he  observed  carefully 
as  he  walked  on.  When  he  came  in  sight  of  'Squire 
Tapper's,  the  radiant,  blushing  face  of  Molly  disclosed 
itself  for  an  instant  at  the  window,  and  speedily  reap- 
peared in  a  flutter  of  delicious  expectancy  at  the  half- 
18* 


206  The  two  Ghosts  of 

open  door,  for  the  news  of  the  arrival  was  already  all 
over  town.  She  gave  a  series  of  little  screams  as  Jack, 
with  such  a  big  black  beard,  and  so  very  brown,  came  up 
and  sainted  her  with  a  strong  bearish  hug  and  a  gener- 
al smell  of  whale-oil, 

For  Jack  was  considerably  altered  by  reason  of  a  cer- 
tain manly  reticence  that  seemed  to  have  grown  on 
with  his  whiskers,  in  place  of  the  old  boyish  dash  and 
frankness.  Molly  had  become  steady  and  womanly,  loo, 
and  now  saw  with  vast  pride  the  dignified  way  in  which 
Jack  deported  himself,  how  he  met  the  'squire's  gra- 
cious welcome  with  equal  ease  and  affability,  and  talked 
of  his  voyage  and  its  adventures  in  such  a  quiet,  modest 
way  as  showed  him  to  be  every  inch  a  hero.  And  when, 
after  a  short  stay,  he  spoke  of  Aunt  Betsy,  and  would 
not  prolong  her  waiting,  Molly  was  quite  resigned  to  let 
him  go,  contenting  herself  with  dwelling  upon  his  im- 
proved looks,  and  indulging  in  charming  little  maidenly 
reveries  that  centred  in  the  anticipated  joys  and  splen- 
dors of  a  certain  day  which  she  had  settled  in  her  own 
mind  as  not  far  distant.  —  Alas,  Molly  !  Indulge  your 
reveries,  poor  girL  Dream  on,  and  let  your  dreams  be 
sweet.  Play  over  and  over  in  anticipation  your  pretty 
little  drama  of  white  dresses  and  bridesmaids  and  wed- 
ding-cake, and  make  it  all  as  gay  as  possible,  for  little 
else  shall  you  have  by  way  of  reward  for  your  many 
months  of  constancy  to  Jack  A  very,  save  his  occasional 
attentions  and  the  satisfaction  of  being  for  years  the 
wonder  and  mystery  of  all  the  gossips  in  town.  Yes; 


NC-JJ  London  Turn-pike.  207 

for  years.  It  may  as  well  be  said  now  as  any  other 
time.  The  day  when  Molly's  dreams  should  be  realized 
withdrew  itself  from  time  to  time,  and  at  length  took 
up  its  permanent  position  in  the  distant  horizon  of  un- 
certainty. "Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray," 
but  Molly  Tupper  was  not  merged  in  Molly  Avery, 
and  there  were  no  prospects  of  that  consummation  more 
than  had  appeared  for  the  last — well — we  .wont  say 
how  many  years.  For  tender  and  devoted  as  Jack  was 
for  a  long  time,  there  was  a  change  in  him,  that  brought 
something  of  constraint  and  reserve  between  them,  and, 
with  all  her  delicate  feminine  tact,  she  could  never  lead 
him  into  any  direct  avowal  of  his  wishes  on  the  subject. 
And  since  Molly  was  the  very  paragon  of  maidenly 
modesty  and  trusting  devotion,  she  came  to  indulge  the 
conviction  that  Jack  knew  best^  and  had  some  wise 
though  inscrutable  reason  for  delaying  matters.  And 
in  time,  even  those  indefatigables,  the  village  gossips, 
wearied  of  wondering  and  surmising,  at  their  perennial 
tea-parties,  and  the  whole  thing  settled  down  into  a  dis- 
couraging calm. 

And  yet  Jack  had  no  design  of  doing  an  injustice. 
He  was  really  fond  of  Molly,  and  fully  intended  to 
marry  her.  But  for  that  ever-present  if,  and  the  com- 
plications it  involved,  the  event  would  have  taken  place 
in  due  time.  His  reflections  sometimes  took  a  very 
painful  turn,  as  he  pondered  the  subject.  Here  was  this 
beautiful,  affectionate  girl,  to  whom  he  had  long  been 
pledged,  waiting  his  time  with  all  the  truth  and  con- 


208  The  two  Ghosts  of 

stancy  of  her  loving  nature.  And  here  he  was,  living  a 
dreary  and  almost  hopeless  bachelor  life,  and  standing 
in  the  way  of  any  advantageous  match  which  might  be 
otherwise  open  for  her  acceptance.  But,  in  case  of  his 
marriage,  the  will  arrangement  must  be  broken  up,  and 
he  should  have  the  mortification  of  making  that  sugges- 
tion to  Philo;  which  seemed  an  almost  impossible  thing 
to  do,  for  not  a  word  with  reference  to  it  had  ever  passed 
the  lips  of  either  since  the  night  when  the  agreement 
was  made,  and  both  had  come  to  regard  it  with  some- 
thing like  a  superstitious  dread,  as  a  theme  whose  dis- 
cussion might  portend  some  fatal  result. 

And  then,  again,  thought  Jack,  life  was  such  an 
uncertainty,  and  a  few  months  of  waiting  might  make  a 
vast  difference.  Suppose,  in  his  foolish  haste,  he  should 
throw  up  the  will  arrangement,  and  marry  Molly,  and 
it  should  turn  out,  after  all,  that  a  little  delay  would 
have  improved  their  condition  so  much.  Though  life 
insurance  was  still  unknown,  and  its  cool  calculations 
and  scientific  averages  would  have  been  then  regarded 
as  the  extreme  of  impiety,  and  its  risks  as  a  wicked 
tempting  of  Providence,  Jack  had  made  out  in  his  own 
mind  a  tolerably  accurate  table  of  averages,  which 
showed  quite  conclusively  against  his  cousin's  chances 
for  longevity.  It  is  hardly  to  be  supposed  that  Philo 
had  neglected  the  same  satisfactory  proceeding,  or  that 
his  results  were  very  different. 

And  thus  this  corrupting  temptation,  that  is  the  root 
of  all  evil,  had  crept  upon  these  two  noble  young  hearts 


New  London  Turnpike.  209 

distorting  and  defiling  them  with  its  slow  taint.  And 
even  now,  either  of  them  might  truthfully  have  ques- 
tioned, — 

"  What  shall  I  be  at  fifty, 

If  nature  keeps  me  alive, 
If  life  is  so  cold  and  bitter, 
When  I  am  but  twenty-five  ? " 

It  would  be  too  dreary  a  task  to  follow  them  year  by 
year.  Let  us  make  leaps  and  take  glimpses  at  them  by 
intervals. 

Twenty-five.    "What  we  have  seen. 

Thirty.  Aunt  Betsy,  weak  and  childish  for  many 
months,  has  gone  to  her  long  home,  with  a  final  admoni- 
tion to  Philo  that  he  must  make  Jack  the  object  of  his 
best  watch  and  care  for  the  entire  period  of  his  natural 
life. 

Molly  is  still  pretty,  though  a  little  thin  and  with 
a  perceptible  sharpening  of  the  elbows.  Her  color  is 
not  quite  so  high,  nor  her  figure  so  plump.  She  keeps 
house  for  the  'squire,  with  devotion  and  good  manage- 
ment that  are  the  admiration  of  the  town;  continues 
to  love  and  trust  in  Jack  with  unabated  fervor,  though 
some  young  women,  whom  she  remembers  to  have  held 
in  her  arms  when  they  were  babies  in  long  clothes,  are 
long  since  married  and  have  babies  of  their  own.  Still 
she  receives  the  sometime  visits  of  her  laggard  lover 
with  the  same  grace  and  sweetness,  confident  that  it  will 
all  come  right  in  time;  has  dropped  the  old  familiar 


2io  The  tivo  Ghosts  of 

"  Jack  "  for  "  John  "  or  "  Mr.  Avery,"  which  is  a  hint 
that  we  ought  to  do  so,  too. 

That  unfathomable  individual  has  been  for  some  time 
a  partner  in  a  grocery  establishment,  carrying  on  a 
good  business,  and  realizing  fair  profits ;  devotes  much 
of  his  leisure  to  revising  the  imaginary  insurance  table, 
and  has  brought  it  down  considerably  closer;  maintains 
a  great  regard  for  his  Cousin  Philo,  and  has  much  affec- 
tionate solicitude  for  his  health;  gives  occasionally  to 
various  benevolent  objects;  is  extremely  regular  in  all 
his  habits,  and  is  generally  regarded  as  a  very  nice 
young  man,  who  has  turned  out  much  better  than  was 
expected  of  him. 

Philo  has  purchased  a  farm  in  an  adjoining  town,  and 
is  improving  it  with  great  care;  is  considered  rather 
"  near "  in  his  dealings,  and  is  generally  quite  distant 
and  reserved.  Suspicions  are  entertained  that  he  has 
been  disappointed  hi  love,  though  nobody  pretends  to 
know  the  particulars;  always  takes  a  great  interest  in 
his  Cousin  John,  whom  he  suspects  of  a  tendency  to 
dropsy.  John,  on  his  part,  thinks  Philo  consumptive. 

Thirty-five.    No  great  variation. 

Both  the  farmer  and  the  grocery-man  are  moderately 
prosperous;  though  neither  ventures  much  into  specu- 
lation, because  each  is  mindful  of  possibilities  in  the 
future  that  will  give  great  additional  advantages.  The 
insurance  table  has  been  reduced  to  one  of  the  exact 
sciences. 


New  London  Turnpike.  211 

Molly,  poor  girl,  has  faded  a  shade  or  two.  She  still 
keeps  house,  and  raises  an  annual  crop  of  old-maid 
pinks  and  pathetic-looking  pansies,  together  with  sage 
and  rosemary  and  sweet  marjoram,  which  she  dries  and 
puts  in  her  closets  and  drawers,  in  order  that  their 
delicate,  homelike  fragrance  may  keep  out  the  moths 
and  pervade  her  apparel.  But,  as  she  moves  so  briskly 
and  cheerfully  about  her  little  tasks,  or  bends  over  some 
bit  of  sewing  or  other  ladycraft,  grave  doubts  intrude 
themselves;  and,  if  she  were  one  whit  less  patient  and 
self-forgetful,  she  would  sometimes  throw  aside  all  these 
little  occupations,  and,  like  Jephthah's  daughter,  bewail 
her  virginity.  And,  as  she  sits  on  Sunday  mornings  in 
church,  alone  in  the  pew  except  the  'squire,  —  now  an 
old  man  who  takes  incredible  quantities  of  snuff  and 
drops  the  hymn-book,  —  as  she  sits  thus,  and  watches 
the  happy  matrons,  no  older  than  she,  coming  in  one 
by  one,  with  their  manly  husbands  and  groups  of  rosy 
children,  there  comes  up,  sometimes,  a  great  rising  in 
her  throat,  which  she  is  fain  to  subdue  by  taking  bits  of 
her  own  preserved  flag-root,  which  she  carries  always 
in  her  pocket.  Or,  when  she  sees  some  pretty  bride 
arrayed  in  the  customary  fineries,  she  sighs  a  little,  as 
the  thought  that  she  has  lost  her  best  bloom  comes  un- 
easily to  the  surface;  and  then  she  sometimes  looks 
timidly  around  to  see  if  Mr.  Avery  has  come  to  church. 
But  Mr.  Avery  isn't  often  there;  the  insurance  ta- 
ble takes  up  a  good  deal  of  his  attention  on  Sun- 
days. 


212  The  two  Ghosts  of 

Molly  has  long  ceased  to  dream  about  the  white 
dresses  and  orange-blossoms.  She  would  be  glad,  in- 
deed, to  make  sure  of  a  plain  dark  silk  and  only  two 
kinds  of  cake;  and  of  late  even  her  hopes  of  these  have 
become  empty  and  melancholy  as  a  last-year's  birds- 
nest.  Yet  she  clings  still  to  the  shadow  of  her  old  co- 
quette girlhood,  and  rejuvenates  herself  with  a  new  bon- 
net every  spring,  with  as  much  seeming  cheerfulness  and 
confidence  as  if  she  were  fifteen  instead  of  thirty-five. 

Forty.    Decided  changes. 

'Squire  Tupper  rests  in  a  grave  marked  by  the  most 
upright  and  respectable  of  tombstones.  And  then  all 
the  chattering  tongues,  that  had  before  wagged  them- 
selves weary  with  gossip  and  conjecture,  took  a  renewed 
impetus,  and  it  was  settled  in  all  quarters  that  Molly 
would  now  be  married  as  speedily  as  the  proprieties 
of  mourning  would  permit.  And  John  himself,  it 
would  seem,  thought  as  much;  for,  without  any  undue 
haste,  he  did  make  some  motions  looking  that  way. 
He  bought  a  new  gig,  and  took  Molly  out  to  ride 
several  times,  besides  sitting  very  regularly  in  her  pew 
at  church.  And,  having  thus  evinced  the  earnestness 
of  his  intentions,  he  made  himself  spruce  one  Sabbath 
evening,  and  proceeded  to  call  on  her,  with  the  express 
design  of  asking  her  to  fix  the  long-deferred  day. 

But  what  was  his  surprise  on  finding,  as  he  came 
upon  the  stoop  where  he  and  Molly  had  so  often  ex- 
changed vows  of  eternal  fidelity  (which  had,  indeed, 


New  London  Turnpike.  213 

been  tolerably  tested),  the  best  parlor  gayly  alight  as 
in  the  days  of  his  early  courtship,  and  to  hear  a  male 
voice  in  very  animated  conversation  with  Molly. 

Curiosity  and  pride  alike  forbade  him  to  retreat;  but 
how  was  his  surprise  intensified  to  dismay  when  Molly, 
looking  remarkably  bright  and  young,  ushered  him  into 
the  presence  of  Mr.  Niles,  a  most  respectable  gentleman 
resident  in  town,  whose  wife  had  been  now  three  months 
dead.  He  was  as  smiling  and  interesting  as  Molly. 
And  presently  that  outrageous  damsel  spoke  up  in  the 
easiest  way  in  the  world,  — 

"  You  dropped  in  just  the  right  time,  Cousin  John,  for 
now  you  shall  be  the  first  one  to  be  invited  to  our 
wedding.  It  is  to  come  off  a  week  from  next  Wednes- 
day in  the  evening.  We  have  just  settled  the  time,  and 
I  shall  have  to  stir  around  pretty  lively  to  get  ready." 

It  was  all  true,  and  there  was  no  help  for  it.  John 
Avery  had  presumed  a  trifle  too  much  upon  the  elastic 
quality  of  Molly's  love  for  him,  and  now,  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  her  seraphic  patience  had  given  way,  and  let  him 
most  decidedly  and  disgracefully  down.  When  her 
father  was  dead  and  she  left  in  loneliness,  and  John  still 
delayed  to  make  direct  provision  for  altering  the  state 
of  things,  Molly  felt  that  she  had  passed  the  limit  of  for- 
bearance, and  with  a  sudden  dash  of  spirit,  in  which  she 
seemed  to  concentrate  all  the  unspoken  pain  and  sup- 
pressed sense  of  wrong  that  had  struggled  in  her  heart 
through  all  these  years  past,  she  actually  set  her  cap  for 
this  forlorn  widower  with  six  children,  caught  him, 
19 


214  Tke  two  Ghosts  of 

rushed  him  through  a  violent  courtship,  evoked  from 
his  stricken  heart  an  ardent  and  desperate  declaration, 
accepted,  and  married  him,  all  in  the  space  of  eight 
weeks. 

And  this  was  John's  first  intimation.  Will  any  wo- 
man blame  her  if  she  had  been  a  little  studious  to  con- 
ceal the  preliminaries  from  him,  till  it  should  be  time  to 
acquaint  him  with  the  result,  or  if  she  wasn't  especially 
tender  of  his  nervous  sensibilities  in  making  her  disclos- 
ure ? 

But  he  was  bidden  to  the  wedding,  and  must  needs 
go,  —  which  he  did,  looking  very  glum,  and  kissing  the 
bride  with  far  less  gusto  than  he  had  done  in  former 
times.  But  it  was  a  very  festive  occasion,  notwith- 
standing, for  the  bridegroom  appeared  in  a  blue  coat 
with  brass  buttons,  and  his  hair  was  greased  to  preter- 
natural glossiness,  while  all  the  six  children  stood  in  a 
row,  their  stature  being  graduated  like  a  flight  of  steps, 
and  the  cake  was  all  that  Molly  had  ever  pictured  it  in 
the  wildest  flight  of  her  imagination.  And  Molly  her- 
self in  a  perfect  cloud  of  gauze  and  blaze  of  blushes  re- 
newed her  youth  prodigiously. 

It  was  all  over,  and  John  Avery  walked  slowly  home- 
ward with  a  glimmering  consciousness  that  the  things 
of  this  life  in  general  were  rather  shaky  and  uncertain,  — 
indulging  even  a  brief  doubt  as  to  the  reliability  of  his 
system  of  averages. 

Fifty.    Both  of  our  old  bachelors  are  beginning  to 


New  London  Turnpike.  215 

grow  gray  and  morose.  Philo  stoops  considerably,  but 
is  otherwise  in  excellent  physical  preservation;  reads 
all  the  medical  books  about  abstinence  and  frugality  as 
the  means  of  promoting  long  life,  and  practises  rigidly 
upon  their  principles.  John  is  equally  tough  and  tem- 
perate. Neither  shows  the  least  sign  of  giving  out  for 
fifty  years  to  come.  Both  have  increased  in  substance 
and  have  the  reputation  of  being  "  forehanded."  The 
insurance  table  has  been  reduced  to  the  very  last  frac- 
tion; but,  spite  of  its  scientific  accuracy,  seems  to  be  one 
of  those  rules  that  are  proved  by  their  exceptions. 

Mrs.  Niles  is  the  most  devoted  of  wives,  the  perfec- 
tion of  step-mothers,  and  rejoices,  besides,  in  a  chubby 
little  boy  of  her  own.  All  the  seven  are  united  in  neg- 
lecting no  opportunity  to  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed. 

Sixty.    Ditto  —  only  more  so. 

Seventy.    The  Ghosts? 

Yes,  indulgent  reader,  your  patience  hath  had  its  per- 
fect work,  if  it  hath  brought  you  through  all  these  pre- 
ceding pages,  in  order  that  you  may  witness  this  de- 
nouement scene,  in  which  the  ghosts  appear,  with  such 
real  and  startling  semblance  in  the  eyes  of  some  of  our 
actors,  that,  in  comparison,  the  fifth  act  of  a  sensation 
drama  would  have  seemed  mild  as  milk. 

It  is  to  see  these  supernatural  visitants  that  we  have 
brought  you  all  this  long  road.  Let  them  show  them- 
selves but  once,  and  we  will  then  be  content,  nay  glad, 
to  drop  our  curtain,  retire  from  the  footlights,«and  whisk 


2i6-  The  two  Ghosts  of 

our  actors  back  to  the  serene  shades  of  private  life. 
Grant  us,  for  a  little  time,  the  gifts  of  conjurers  and 
"meejums."  Let  our  Asmodeus  take  you  in  charge, 
and  show  you  things  that  are  beyond  the  range  of  mere 
mortal  perception.  Ubiquity  shall  be  yours  while  you 
journey  into  the  land  of  spirits,  and  the  name  of  the 
mischievous  wizard  and  terrible  practical  joker  who 
conducts  you  thither  shall  be  Jack  Niles. 

For  we  omitted  to  mention,  in  its  appropriate  connec- 
tion, that  when  Molly  found  herself  laid  under  the  re- 
sponsibility of  naming  her  boy,  she  was  debarred  from 
bestowing  on  him  that  of  his  father,  since  it  had  been 
previously  appropriated  among  the  six,  and  her  artistic 
sense  revolted  from  starting  the  poor,  helpless  innocent 
out  in  the  world  under  the  honored  designation  of 
Zophar  Tupper,  which  his  grandfather  had  borne  with 
such  eminent  respectability.  And  so,  being  influenced 
by  the  tender  grace  of  motherhood,  and  desirous  of 
showing  her  kind  feeling  towards  the  man  whom  she 
had  once  so  loved  and  had  now  so  freely  forgiven,  she 
felt  that  she  could  do  it  in  no  more  expressive  way  than 
by  calling  her  baby  John  Avery.  The  compliment  was 
appreciated,  and  there  may  still  be  seen,  among  the  fam- 
ily treasures  of  the  Niles  tribe,  a  silver  cup,  of  punchy 
form  and  curious  workmanship,  marked  with  the  in- 
scription "  J.  A.  K.  from  J.  A." 

Jack  the  second  grew  up  a  tolerably  correct  copy  of 
the  boyhood  of  his  namesake.  He  was  gifted  with  the 
same  gaye^y  of  temperament,  and  facility  for  getting 


New  London  Turn-pike.  217 

into  scrapes.  It  had  happened  more  than  once  that 
heedless  pranks  of  his  had  been  leniently  looked  upon, 
and  concealed  or  remedied  by  the  considerate  care  of 
John  the  elder,  who,  spite  of  all  the  miserable  warping 
and  drying  up  of  all  his  kindlier  sympathies  under  the 
influence  of  that  ever-impending  possibility,  still  seemed 
to  find  a  congenial  satisfaction  in  the  society  of  this 
frank,  jolly  youth,  whose  presence  brought  with  it  such 
an  echo  of  his  own  once  careless,  joyous  life. 

But,  spite  of  warnings  and  admonitions,  Jack  was  still 
a  sad  boy,  and  his  favorite  mode  of  working  off  his  sur- 
plus activity  was  in  devising  and  executing  practical 
jokes.  His  invention  and  audacity  reached  their  cul- 
mination in  a  most  unprincipled  scheme  against  the  two 
venerable  Avery  cousins. 

Philo  was  now  as  sour,  dry,  and  wizened  an  old  man 
as  dwelt  in  the  state  of  Connecticut,  and  those  bleak 
hills  and  stony  slopes  do  not  seem  to  produce  very  ripe 
and  mellow  old  age.  But  Philo  was  known  as  an  es- 
pecially hard  and  grasping  old  sinner,  living  a  sort  of 
dog's  life,  all  by  himself,  and  too  stingy  to  open  his  eyes 
wide.  And  it  befell  once  that  he  and  his  strange,  bar- 
ren mode  of  life  were  touched  upon  in  the  evening  talk 
of  the  Niles  family,  and  then  the  mother,  with  her  old, 
modest  sprightliness,  went  over  the  story  of  the  two 
wills  made  so  long  ago,  and  which  must,  in  the  natural 
course  of  human  events,  soon  come  into  effect.  She  had 
grown  to  be  an  old  woman,  this  blessed  mother,  but 
none  of  the  loving  ones,  to  whom  her  presence  had  been 
19* 


218  The  two  Ghosts  of 

a  joy  and  consolation  for  so  many  years,  ever  thought 
of  her  gray  hairs  or  caps  or  spectacles,  except  as  the 
emblems  of  more  abundant  peace  and  benediction. 

She  tells  her  story  now,  —  about  the  early  days  of  the 
two  old  men,  whose  withered  faces,  and  bent  forms,  and 
eager,  acquisitive  eyes  are  so  familiar  to  them  all,  —  and 
as  she  proceeds,  Jack  lapses  from  lively  attention  to  a 
mood  of  profound  reflection,  which  is  always  a  bad  sign 
for  somebody. 

In  the  evening  twilight  of  the  next  day,  a  thin,  yel- 
low-haired lad,  mounted  on  a  large,  bony,  sorrel  horse, 
presented  himself  with  an  appearance  of  great  haste  and 
urgency  before  the  door  of  Philo  A  very 's  hermetic 
dwelling.  After  a  vigorous  though  fruitless  knocking,  he 
made  his  way  to  the  rear  of  the  small,  dismal  brown 
house,  and  spied  an  aged  figure  advancing  from  an  ad- 
jacent piece  of  woods,  bending  under  the  weight  of  a 
large  heap  of  brush. 

"  Be  you  Philo  Avery  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  ancient,  with  evident  suspicion. 

"  Then  I've  got  a  letter  for  you,"  said  the  thin  youth, 
and,  thrusting  it  forth,  sprang  upon  his  high  horse  and 
clattered  away  down  the  road. 

A  letter  I  Philo  stood  and  watched  the  messenger 
till  he  disappeared  from  sight,  filled  with  a  vague  sense 
that  something  strange  was  about  to  break  upon  him. 
A  letter  sent  to  him  was  in  itself  a  strange  occurrence. 
Who  could  write  to  him  ?  and  for  what  ?  Could  it  in- 
deed be  the  one  thing  so  long  looked  for  ?  and,  if  it 


New  London  Turnpike. 


219 


were,  how  sudden  !  Tremulous  with  excitement,  he  trot- 
ted into  the  house,  and,  after  many  minutes  of  agitated 
fumbling,  succeeded  in  lighting  a  candle.  Then  he  held 
the  letter  close  and  tried  to  examine  the  address,  for 
Philo  was  a  victim  to  that  unaccountable  oddity,  to 
which  the  greater  portion  of  human  nature  is  prone,  of 
making  a  close  and  critical  scrutiny  of  any  unexpected 
or  mysterious  letter,  before  opening  it  for  the  conclusive 
knowledge  of  its  contents.  But  everything  looks  misty 
before  his  eyes,  and,  after  much  squinting  and  peering,  it 
occurs  to  him  that  he  has  forgotten  his  spectacles.  And 
at  last,  after  more  delay  and  fumbling,  he  comes  to  the 
subject  matter,  very  brief  but  comprehensive:  — 

"  John  Avery  died  last  night.  Funeral  at  ten  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning." 

No  date,  no  signature ;  but  what  of  that  ?  Over  and 
over  Philo  read  the  two  lines,  before  his  mind  could 
really  grasp  the  intelligence  they  conveyed.  It  would 
have  made  a  striking  picture,  —  that  withered,  bent  fig- 
ure, in  its  coarse,  well-worn  clothes,  stooping  in  the  dim, 
lonely  room,  and  the  hungry  eyes  devouring  that  bit  of 
news.  It  had  happened  at  last,  this  thing  for  which  he 
has  waited  almost  half  a  century.  How  many  hun- 
dred times  he  had  imagined  his  own  feelings  when  it 
should  come  to  him,  and  how  different  it  all  was  !  The 
old  man  sinks  into  a  chair  and  gives  himself  up  to  rev- 
ery.  And  sitting  thus,  there  come  stealing  upon  him 
remembrances  of  long  past  scenes.  He  thinks  of  the  time 
when  he  and  John  were  boys  together,  and  of  all  his 


220 


mother's  love  and  care  of  both;  of  the  parting  on  the 
deck  of  the  Skylark,  and  their  long  voyage.  And  then 
came  the  slow-moving  panorama  of  all  the  dull,  dreary, 
barren  years  that  dragged  their  slow  length  onward  be- 
tween his  present  self  and  all  these  boyish  memories. 
The  hours  pass  unnoted  as  the  poor  old  man  goes 
through  the  successive  stages  of  his  retrospect,  and 
finally  arouses  himself  with  a  start  when  the  candle,  that 
has  been  burning  dim  and  flickering,  gives  a  dying  glare 
and  goes  out  in  the  socket.  And  then  he  arises,  cramped 
and  stiff,  and  creeps  trembling  to  bed  as  the  cocks  are 
crowing  for  midnight.  But  the  newly-made  heir  cannot 
sleep.  Haunting  images  visit  him,  as  the  Furies  sur- 
rounded Orestes.  At  length  he  rises  and  seeks  the  re- 
pository of  his  valuables.  He  takes  out  the  will,  and 
though  he  has  known  it,  every  word  by  heart,  for  a 
whole  generation's  lifetime,  he  reads  it  mechanically 
over.  How  strange  the  lines  look,  and  the  name  of 
Zophar  Tupper,  written  with  the  old  magisterial  flourish! 
Here,  too,  are  the  signatures  of  the  witnesses,  and  he 
finds  himself  wondering  why  John  never  married  Molly 
after  all,  and,  even  now,  does  not  dream  that  he  himself 
was  the  obstacle,  by  his  disagreeable  persistency  in  liv- 
ing; for  our  mortality  is  the  last  and  severest  lesson 
that  we  learn  in  life. 

Philo  wonders  if  it  is  not  almost  daylight,  and  looks 
out  at  the  east  window  for  the  first  streak  of  dawn; 
reflects  that  he  must  start  early,  for  it  is  nine  miles  to 
the  town,  and  his  old  horse  is  not  over-active.  He  will 


Neiv  London  Turnpike.  221 

have  to  dress  up,  too,  for  the  funeral.  How  strange  ! 
To  pass  away  the  time,  he  begins  to  get  out  his  clothes 
and  lay  them  ready.  From  the  depths  of  a  great  red 
chest  he  brings  up  a  pair  of  good,  new  pantaloons,  that 
he  has  not  worn  for  ten  years,  and  then  a  coat  to  match, 
and  a  fine  shirt  with  a  ruffled  bosom,  that  Aunt  Betsy 
made  for  him  while  she  was  still  young  enough  to  do 
euch  things.  And,  lastly,  he  bethinks  himself  of  a  pair 
of  black  linen  gloves  that  he  bought  on  the  occasion  of 
the  good  woman's  funeral,  and  from  the  darkest  corner 
of  the  chest  he  fishes  them  up.  A  little  dingy  and  rot- 
ten they  are,  to  be  sure,  but  still  in  wonderful  preserva- 
tion, though  they  give  way  in  two  or  three  spots  when 
he  puts  them  carefully  on. 

In  these  little  occupations  he  wears  away  the  hours 
till  the  darkness  begins  to  grow  gray,  and  as  soon  as  he 
can  see  sufficiently  he  goes  to  the  pasture  and  leads  his 
astonished  old  horse  to  the  door.  Then  comes  the  terri- 
ble process  of  shaving;  —  and  what  spectacle  is  more  for- 
lorn than  that  of  an  old  bachelor  trying  to  shave  a  long, 
stiff  beard  by  a  weak  light  and  with  cold  water  ?  Even 
this  is  at  length  achieved ;  and  then,  after  much  brushing 
and  other  unaccustomed  elaborations  of  toilet,  he 
places  the  will  carefully  in  his  pocket,  and,  drawing  on 
the  rusty  gloves,  takes  a  final  survey  of  himself  before 
starting.  The  mouldy  little  mirror  reflects  a  thin,  yel- 
low face  dried  into  long,  fine  wrinkles,  straggling  gray 
locks,  and  watery,  pale-blue  eyes.  The  old-fashioned 
clothes  make  the  thin,  stooping  figure  more  awkward 


222  The  two  Ghosts  of 

and  spindling,  and  a  high,  tight  cravat  completes  the 
scarecrow  effect  of  the  whole.  Still  Philo  has  done  his 
best,  and  is  satisfied,  as  he  mounts  his  ancient  steed,  that 
he  presents  the  very  likeness  of  respectable  sorrow. 

And  jogging  decorously  onward,  as  becomes  his  dis- 
mal errand,  he  ponders  how  different  this  morning  is 
from  all  the  other  mornings  of  his  life.  In  the  silver- 
gray  dawn  there  come  back  all  the  strange  sentiments 
that  had  arisen  out  of  the  surprise  and  excitement  of  the 
previous  midnight.  A  thick  mist  creeps  up  from  a  little 
stream  that  runs  by  the  road-side,  and  its. damp,  clinging 
chill  seems  to  strike  through  and  saturate  his  very  vitals. 
It  occurs  to  him  that  the  road  is  very  lonely,  and  the  few 
scattered  farm-houses  very  dreary  and  inhospitable- 
looking,  for  it  is  a  cloudy  morning,  and  people  are  not 
yet  stirring. 

All  the  influences  and  associations  of  the  hour  are 
dreary  and  funereal.  He  tries  to  fix  his  mind  upon  the 
inheritance  into  which  he  is  about  to  step,  but  no  bright, 
alluring  visions  rise  at  his  call,  and  his  thoughts  are 
either  perpetually  recurring  to  the  early  memories  that 
so  affected  him  the  night  before,  or  else  to  the  sugges- 
tion of  his  own  form  lying  stiff  and  cold  for  burial  in  the 
place  of  his  cousin's.  All  the  well-known  landmarks  of 
the  familiar  way  start  into  new  and  strange  aspects;  and 
he  recoils  in  affright  from  an  old  guideboard  that  has 
stood  in  exactly  the  same  place  for  forty  years,  but  now 
appears  like  some  spectral  gallows  that  spreads  its  arms 
in  ghostly  invitation.  He  twists  and  pinches  himself  as 


New  London  Turnpike.  223 

he  rides  along,  to  be  assured  that  he  is  in  the  world  of 
realities;  but  the  night's  experiences  have  unstrung  his 
aged  nerves,  and  mind  and  body  quiver  helplessly  alike. 

And  now,  from  the  brow  of  a  little  eminence,  he  per- 
ceives a  gig  slowly  advancing  from  below,  and,  as  it 
nears  him,  he  becomes  conscious  of  a  great  familiarity 
in  its  appearance.  It  is  certainly  very  like  the  one  that 
John  bought  so  long  ago,  before  Molly  was  married, 
and  which  he  has  used  ever  since.  Curiously,  too,  it  is 
drawn  by  a  white  horse,  and  John  has  had  a  white  horse 
for  ages  past.  This  is  indeed  a  coincidence.  The  thing 
comes  noiselessly  nearer.  Oh,  horror  of  horrors  !  It  is 
John's  own  self,  —  his  form,  —  his  features, — his  old 
brown  hat,  —  John  indeed,  but  deadly  pale,  and  with 
wide,  wild  eyes  fixed  in  a  terrible  stony  gaze.  No 
natural  look,  no  nod  of  recognition,  but  only  that 
hideous,  glassy  stare  as  he  comes  silently  along,  riding 
up  out  of  the  white  fog, 

Philo  can  neither  move  nor  cry  out.  He  would  turn 
and  escape,  but  his  stiffened  hand  refuses  to  draw  the 
rein,  and  his  horse  has  become,  like  himself,  rigid  and 
motionless. 

Prayers,  oaths,  and  invocations  rush,  in  a  confused 
huddle,  through  his  bewildered  brain,  as  he  sits  and 
gazes,  unable  to  remove  his  eyes  from  that  horrid  sight, 
and  while  he  is  vainly  seeking  to  frame  his  lips  to  some 
sort  of  utterance,  the  wraith  itself  breaks  the  silence. 

"  Philo."    The  tone  is  broken  and  distant. 

Trembling  and  choked,  he  tries  to  answer.    The  blood. 


224  The  two  Ghosts  of 

rushes  to  his  face  and  almost  blinds  him,  and  he  stam- 
mers out,  — 

"  John  Avery,  —  aren't  you  dead  ?  " 

"  Are  you  ?  "  asks  the  wraith. 

"I  —  I  —  I  don't  know,"  says  Philo,  and  he  didn't. 

The  ghost  rises,  steps  down  from  the  gig,  and  extends 
his  hand.  It  is  very  cold  and  clammy,  but  still  a  sound, 
fleshly  hand,  though  quite  hard  and  shrunken  from  its 
early  proportions. 

"  Thank  God  ! "  shouts  Philo  Avery. 

"  Thank  God  I  "  responds  John  Avery,  fervently. 

"  How  came  you  here  ?  "  asks  Philo,  still  a  little  in- 
credulous as  to  the  real  mortality  of  his  companion. 

"  On  my  way  to  attend  your  funeral,"  says  John. 

"  Why,  no,  —  that  can't  be,  —  I'm  going  to  yours." 

"  Heavens  ! "  exclaims  John. 

"  I  guess  it's  a  hoax,"  suggests  Philo. 

John  takes  out  a  letter  and  reads  aloud:  "  Philo  Avery 
died  last  night.  Funeral  at  ten  o'cZocfc  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"  Just  like  mine,  except  the  name,"  says  Philo.  "  So 
you  thought  I  was  a  ghost." 

"  Didn't  know  what  else  you  could  be.  You  looked 
queer  enough  for  one,"  replied  John. 

"  "Well,  I've  lived  long  enough  to  see  ghosts,  but  this 
is  the  first  of  that  kind  of  gentry  that  ever  showed  them- 
selves to  me,"  cried  Philo,  in  his  high,  cracked  voice,  and 
actually  convulsed  with  laughter.  John  joined  in,  and 
the  two  ghosts  made  the  whole  region  alive. 


New  London  Turnpike.  225 

"  It  must  have  been  somebody  that  knew  about  the 
wills,"  said  John,  when  they  had  grown  calm. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Philo ;  "  and  what  cursed  things  they 
have  been  ?  " 

"  Cursed  —  for  both  of  us,"  said  John. 

"  Have  you  got  it  along  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  —  have  you  ?  "  answered  John,  red- 
dening faintly. 

"  Why,  yes,  —  and  here  it  goes,"  cried  Philo,  with 
sudden  energy,  pulling  it  out,  and  shredding  it  in  strips. 
John  was  not  to  be  outdone.  With  equal  eagerness  he 
pulled  his  out,  and,  in  a  few  seconds,  both  the  wills  were 
fluttering  in  fragments  among  the  elderberry  bushes  by 
the  road-side. 

"  What  a  contemptible  old  screw  I've  been  ! "  ex- 
claimed John,  penitentially,  as  the  insurance  table  came 
into  his  mind. 

"No  worse  than  I,"  said  Philo,  thinking  of  all  his 
drudging,  grovelling  years. 

"Why,  do  you  know  I've  wished  you  dead,"  burst 
out  John. 

"  Well,  suppose  you  have,  —  I've  done  the  same  by 
you,"  answered  Philo. 

"  May  God  forgive  us  both." 

" Amen"  said  Philo,  solemnly. 

"  And  help  us  in  the  future,"  continued  John. 

"  Amen  again,"  said  Philo. 

The  muffled  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  sounded  through 
the  fog,  and  presently  the  twinkling  face  of  Jack  Kiles 


226  The  two  Ghosts. 

beamed  upon  the  ghostly  couple.  Looking  with  well 
simulated  astonishment  on  the  group,  the  empty  gig, 
and  his  venerable  namesake  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  Jack  paused  and  begged  to  know  what  was 
the  trouble,  and  whether  he  could  be  of  service. 

"  I  believe  it  was  you,"  said  Philo,  looking  at  the  mis- 
chievous lad  with  sudden  prescience. 

"  I  know  'twas,"  said  John. 

And  though  Jack  never  owned  it,  that  was  a  convic- 
tion that  never  departed  from  the  minds  of  the  two,  and 
when  they  died,  long  after,  he  found  himself  bound  by 
substantial  reasons  to  remember  the  Two  Ghosts  of 
New  London  Turnpike. 


DOWN  BY  THE  SEA. 

(227) 


DOWN  BY  THE  SEA. 

[jHEKE  is  a  lonely  old  house  situated  close  down 
by  the  sea,  in  one  of  the  most  secluded  yet  lone- 
ly nooks,  not  far  from  one  of  the  most  noted 
resorts  on  the  seaboard  ;  an  old  gray  stone 
house,  showing  the  marks  of  the  many  wild 
storms  which  have  beat  upon  it  in  all  the  long  years 
which  have  passed  over  it;  a  house  whose  bareness 
and  desolation  are  enlivened  but  little  by  the  heavy- 
trailing  ivy  which  creeps  over  a  portion  of  it  and  in 
which  many  wild  birds  build  their  nests.  Old  as  it  is,  it 
seems  never  to  have  been  finished,  —  rather  to  have  been 
left  without  any  of  the  last  touches  which  complete  a 
building,  and  to  have  thus  stood  for  many  years,  with 
the  wild  winds  and  storms  of  the  coast  beating  against 
it.  Here  and  there  a  shutter  is  torn  from  its  hinges, 
and  lies  where  it  fell  under  the  window.  The  point  is 
entirely  gone  from  cornice  and  colonnade,  and  the  floor 
of  the  latter,  which  had  never  been  painted,  is  old  and 
worm-eaten.  The  grounds  about  it  are  an  intricate  tan- 
gle of  brushwood.  Flowering  shrubs,  which  had  been 
planted  here  and  there,  have  grown  up  into  wild  and  un- 
20  *  (229) 


230  Down  by  the  Sea. 

shapely  trees.  Rose-bushes  and  wild  vines  choke  up  the 
paths,  and  the  gates  and  fences  are  broken  and  dilapi- 
dated. There  is  one  path,  which  leads  down  to  the 
beach,  which  has  been  kept  open,  and  has,  apparently, 
been  often  trodden;  but  apart  from  this  there  seems  to 
be  but  little  sign  of  life  around  the  old  gray  house. 
There  is,  indeed,  one  red-curtained  window  upon  the 
side  which  looks  out  to  sea,  and  here  a  bright  light  is  al- 
ways burning  at  night,  and  all  night,  and  the  sailors 
have  learned  to  watch  for  it  as  for  a  signal;  and  the 
place  is  known  to  them  as  the  Lone-Star  House.  Let 
us  watch  around  the  house,  and  perhaps  it  will  have  a 
story  to  tell,  —  such  places  often  do  have,  lonely  and 
deserted  as  they  seem;  stories  often  full  enough  of 
human  love  and  heart-break.  "  It  looks  as  though  it 
might  be  haunted,"  say  the  gay  parties  who  ride  by  it 
from  the  fashionable  resort  a  few  miles  away.  Yes,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  but  what  it  is. 

"  All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 

Are  haunted  houses.     Through  the  open  doors 
Phantoms  unseen  upon  their  errands  glide 
With  feet  that  make  no  noise  upon  the  floors." 

It  is  growing  sunset  now,  and  the  sky  is  blossoming 
most  gloriously  with  many-colored  clouds,  as  out  of 
the  door  of  the  old  house  a  woman  glides  and  takes  the 
beaten  path  to  the  beach.  A  great  rough  and  shaggy 
dog  follows  her,  and  the  two  together  walk  thoughtfully 
along.  They  go  down  where  the  great  waves  are  turn- 


Down  by  the  Sea.  231 

bling  and  tossing  upon  the  rocks,  and  pace  rapidly  up 
and  down  the  shore,  looking  far  out  over  the  green 
waters  with  their  fleecy  crowns  of  foam.  She  is  a  woman 
of  middle-age,  verging  near  upon  forty,  one  would  say, 
tall,  and  straight  as  an  arrow,  with  large,  unfathomable 
gray  eyes  and  a  massive  coronal  of  glossy  hair, 
streaked  here  and  there  with  gray.  She  wears  a  cheap, 
dark  dress;  but  she  has  a  handsome  scarlet  shawl 
around  her  shoulders,  of  the  most  superb  tint  of  which 
you  can  conceive;  and  she  looks  like  a  woman  who 
would  love  rich  and  gorgeous  coloring;  and,  indeed,  it  is 
one  of  her  passions.  In  draperies,  in  articles  of  dress 
where  such  colors  are  admissible,  and  more  than  all  in 
flowers  and  leaves,  she  loves  the  deepest  and  richest 
tints.  Every  night  the  sunset  is  a  revelation  to  her. 
She  studies  the  gorgeous  castles  and  cathedrals  of  gold, 
which  are  builded  in  the  western  heavens  with  a  glory 
which  the  temple  of  Solomon  could  never  attain;  and 
she  watches,  from  her  little  turret  window  up  in  the  old 
gray  house  yonder,  every  morning  for  the  rising  of  the 
great  high-priest  in  his  garments  resplendent.  There 
was,  indeed,  something  warm  and  rich  and  tropical  in 
her  blood,  albeit  it  sprung  from  the  cold  !N"ew  England 
fount.  She  reminded  one,  as  much  as  anything,  of 

"  The  wondrous  valley  hidden  in  the  depths  of  Gloucester  woods 
Full  of  plants  which  love  the  summer  blooms  of  warmer  latitudes, 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  broided  by  the  tropic's  flowery  vines, 
And  the  silver-starred  magnolia  lights  the  twilight  of  the  pines." 


232  Down  by  the  Sea. 

She  walks  upon  the  beach  till  the  sunset  has  burned 
low  in  the  red  west,  and  then  takes  the  path  back  to  the 
house.  When  about  half-way  across  the  garden,  she 
turns  off  a  little  from  the  main  path,  and,  putting  back 
the  bushes  with  her  hands,  makes  her  way  for  a  few 
paces  and  stops  at  a  little  grave,  —  a  child's  grave,  —  tuft- 
ed thick  with  purple  pansies,  sprinkled  with  white  dai- 
sies. She  sits  down  for  a  moment  beside  it,  plucks  one 
or  two  spires  of  grass  which  have  sprung  up  among  the 
flowers,  then  hurriedly  leaves  it,  calling  her  dog  after 
her,  and  going  into  the  house,  where  the  light  soon 
shines  in  the  seaward-looking  window.  The  woman's 
name  is  Agnes  Wayland,  and  here  she  has  lived  alone 
for  now  nearly  twenty  years,  —  alone,  except  once  in  a 
while  of  a  summer  she  takes  a  quiet  boarder  or  two, 
who  see  little  of  her  and  know  less,  and  of  whom  she 
esteems  it  a  great  pleasure  to  be  well  rid,  when  the  au- 
tumnal equinox  comes  on.  "Winter  and  summer,  in 
storm  and  sleet,  rain  and  Shine,  she  stays  shut  in  the 
dim  old  house  all  day,  and  emerges  only  towards  even- 
ing for  her  walk  upon  the  beach,  and  her  peep  at  the  lit- 
tle grave,  with  its  coverlet  of  pansies  in  summer  and  its 
white  drapery  of  snow  in  winter.  Upon  the  night  of 
which  I  have  been  writing,  she  made  her  way  back,  as  I 
have  said,  into  her  own  room,  —  a  room  where  her  pre- 
vailing tastes  could  quickly  be  discovered.  A  peculiar 
depth  and  brilliancy  of  coloring  pervaded  everything; 
carpet  and  curtains  were  of  the  same  vivid  crimson, 
and  the  large  bay-window  filled  with  plants  was  gorgeous 


Down  by  the  Sea.  233 

as  a  festal-room  of  the  fairies.  Everything  was  old  and 
much  worn,  and  had  a  look  of  old  but  not  faded  splen- 
dor. A  few  books  occupied  a  cabinet  in  one  corner,  and 
a  piano,  which  was  always  locked,  stood  in  another. 
An  easy-chair  was  drawn  up  to  a  little  stand,  near  the 
window,  and  upon  it  lay  an  open  Bible.  This  was  the 
place  where  she  sat  and  read  hour  by  hour  and  day  by 
day,  always  from  the  Bible,  only  varying  her  occupa- 
tion by  weary  hours  over  intricate  and  elaborate  pieces 
of  fancy-work,  —  more  beautiful  and  marvellous  than 
such  pieces  of  work  ever  were  made  before,  but  always 
things  which  required  only  mechanical  kind  of  ingenuity, 
and  needed  genius  and  taste  only  in  the  coloring,  — and 
these  she  sold  at  the  nearest  town,  and  so  earned  her 
daily  bread.  After  she  had  taken  her  accustomed  seat 
this  evening,  she  was  startled  by  a  ring  at  the  door,  —  a 
sound  so  unusual  that  she  trembled  like  a  leaf  as  she 
took  the  lamp  and  started  to  answer  the  summons.  She 
had  got  half-way  down  the  stairs,  when  she  stopped,  and 
called  lightly  to  the  dog,  who  was  beside  her  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  together  they  opened  the  door.  A  grave- 
looking  elderly  gentleman  stood  there,  who  inquired  if 
he  had  the  honor  of  addressing  Mrs.  Wayland. 

"  That  is  my  name,  sir,"  she  answered,  not  opening 
the  door  or  bidding  him  enter. 

"  And  mine  is  Ashly,  madam.  I  am  a  clergyman,  liv- 
ing in  Boston,  and  I  am  seeking  a  quiet  place,  near  the 
sea,  in  which  to  spend  the  summer.  I  have  been  told  in 
the  village  yonder  that  you  sometimes  receive  a  boarder, 


234  Down  by  the  Sea. 

and  I  think  your  place  will  just  suit  me.    I  have  recom- 
mendations, if  you  wish." 

But  Mrs.  Wayland  did  not  need  them.  She  was  too 
good  a  judge  of  character,  despite  her  long  seclusion, 
not  to  see  at  a  glance  that  he  was  what  he  asserted, 
and  that,  if  she  must  have  boarders  at  all,  he  was 
just  what  she  wanted.  So  she  invited  him  in,  without 
relaxing  a  particle  in  the  coldness  of  her  demeanor,  and, 
giving  him  a  seat  in  a  cheerless-looking  and  scantily- 
furnished  dining-room,  told  him  in  as  few  words  as  pos- 
sible what  she  would  do  for  him  and  for  how  much  she 
would  do  it,  —  a  straightforwardness  which  raised  her 
very  highly  in  the  reverend  doctor's  estimation,  al- 
though she  designed,  if  she  had  a  design  in  the  matter, 
quite  a  contrary  effect.  She  had  sometimes  had  some 
trouble  in  keeping  her  boarders  at  a  sufficient  distance 
to  suit  her,  and  she  had  found  it  necessary  upon  their 
first  arrival  to  have  it  distinctly  understood  that  they 
were  to  expect  no  sort  of  companionship  from  her;  that 
she  gave  them  a  room  and  their  board,  such  as  it  was,  and 
she  never  took  any  pains  to  make  it  good  or  attractive, 
and  that  that  was  all  she  wanted  of  them.  But  Dr.  Ashly 
had  a  great  horror  of  a  bustling  and  gossipy  landlady, 
and  thought  he  had  found  a  perfect  treasure;  and  when 
she  had  shown  him  the  room  he  could  have,  if  he  liked, 
he  eagerly  agreed  to  take  it,  and  said  if  she  had  no  ob- 
jection he  would  take  possession  forthwith,  and  not  go 
back  to  the  village  till  morning.  To  this  she  assented 
indifferently,  and  soon  left  him  alone,  calling  the  one 


Down  by  the  Sea.  235 

house-maid  to  get  him  some  supper,  and,  retiring  to  her 
own  room,  was  soon  buried  in  her  accustomed  thoughts, 
and  scarcely  aware  of  his  existence.  And  as  landlady 
and  lodger  were  equally  pleased  to  let  each  other  alone, 
there  was  little  intercourse  between  them  for  several 
weeks.  But  one  night,  when  the  doctor  had  been  for 
a  long  walk  on  the  beach,  he  saw,  as  he  was  returning, 
Mrs.  Wayland,  in  her  usual  evening  exercise,  pacing  up 
and  down  the  beach,  and  was  struck  by  her  appearance 
as  she  walked  thus,  and  stood  still  for  a  time  observing 
her,  and  followed  her  at  last,  at  a  little  distance,  while  she 
made  her  visit  to  the  child's  grave.  His  kind  heart  was 
very  much  touched  by  the  sight,  and  he  determined  to  talk 
with  her  and  give  her  his  sympathy  and  friendship,  if  she 
needed  them.  So  he  gathered  some  of  the  pansies  off 
from  the  grave,  and,  holding  them  in  his  hand,  went  into 
tea.  Mrs.  Waylaud  had  laid  aside  her  shawl  and  was 
already  seated  at  the  table.  They  usually  had  little  con- 
versation at  these  times,  and  that  of  the  most  common- 
place character.  This  evening,  as  he  came  through  the 
door  and  she  caught  sight  of  the  flowers  in  his  hand, 
she  exclaimed,  in  a  quick,  excited  way,  "  You  have  been 
to  my  grave  !  " 

She  spoke  as  though  he  had  intruded  upon  her  most 
sacred  privacy,  and  he  answered,  apologetically,  "  Yes, 
I  have  visited  the  little  grave  in  the  garden.  I  hope  I 
have  not  intruded.  I  have  a  little  grave  in  the  church- 
yard at  home,  and  such  spots  are  very  sacred  to  me." 

Agnes  Wayland  was  a  lady,  and  she  would  not  have 


236  Down  by  the  Sea. 

been  guilty  of  a  rudeness  for  the  world,  so  she  hastened 
to  reply,  — 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  you  have  not  been  guilty  of  intrusion,  but 
you  are  the  first  one  who  has  ever  visited  my  grave, 
and  I  have  watched  it  so  fondly  for  so  many  years 
that  I  almost  felt  jealous  that  any  other  eyes  should 
ever  look  upon  it." 

"  And  I  have  not  only  looked  upon  it,"  said  the  min- 
ister, very  softly  and  benignantly,  "  but  I  have  dropped 
a  tear  upon  it." 

"  That  is  something  that  I  have  never  done." 

"  Then  I  pity  you  with  all  my  heart,  my  friend.  If  I 
had  not  been  able  to  weep  over  my  child's  grave,  I  think 
my  heart  would  have  broken." 

"  Mine,  sir,  was  broken  before  the  child  died,"  and,  as 
she  said  this,  she  arose  hastily  and  left  the  room. 

The  minister  was  much  interested  and  full  of  sympa- 
thy for  this  lonely  woman,  whose  lot  was  so  isolated,  and 
as  he  lay  that  night  and  listened  to  the  deep,  hollow  roar 
of  the  sea,  he  thought  of  the  great  deeps  cf  the  human 
heart,  and  the  fierce  passions  which  were  ever  tossing 
it,  and  of  the  great  calm  of  death. 

A  few  days  after  he  ventured  as  delicately  as  he 
could  to  return  to  the  subject,  by  referring  to  the  little 
girl  he  had  lost,  and  of  how  her  mother  had  followed 
her,  but  a  short  time  before,  to  the  better  land. 

"  You  seem  very  cheerful,  sir,"  said  Agnes  Wayland, 
in  a  quick,  impetuous  way,  "  and  yet  you  have  had 
trouble,  it  seems."  » 


Down  by  the  Sea.  237 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  have  had  some  very  severe  and  dread- 
ful trials;  but  I  am  very  happy  and  hopeful  in  spite  of 
them  all,  for  I  know  that  now  they  will  soon  be  ended,  and 
that  I  shall  recover  all  that  I  have  lost  when  I  reach  the 
heavenly  land." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  I  don't  know  it.  When  I 
buried  my  only  child  down  in  the  garden  there,  I  thought 
I  had  lost  him  forever.  That  was  why,  in  my  stony  grief, 
no  tear  ever  fell  upon  his  grave.  I  have  been  trying 
these  fifteen  years  to  believe  what  you  say  you  believe ; 
but  it  has  no  consolation  for  me.  God  took  my  child 
away  from  me  in  my  bitterest  need,  and  he  took  him 
forever.  "Was  it  a  good  God  who  did  that  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  cold  and  rigid,  and  a  pallor  as  of  death 
was  upon  her  face  as  she  paused  for  a  reply. 

"  A  good  God,  madam  !  and  whom  he  loveth  he  chas- 
teneth  !  " 

"  No,  indeed,  sir,  I  don't  believe  that.  He  didn't  love 
me,  and  I  didn't  love  him,  and  I  don't  love  him  now,  — 
hate  him,  rather.  He  has  tried  me  too  sorely." 

"  My  dear  friend,  you  know  not  what  you  say.  I  be- 
seech you,  do  not  blaspheme  your  God." 

"  I  have  only  said,  sir,  for  once,  what  I  have  been 
thinking  all  these  dreadful  years.  When  I  buried  my 
child  down  there,  I  did  not  believe  in  any  God  for 
years.  I  thought  some  vile  and  fiendish  Fate  was  pursu- 
ing me.  Then  you  ministers  were  always  saying  to 
me, '  Pray; '  and  I  prayed.  They  said  to  me, '  Study  the 
word  of  God ; '  and  I  studied  it.  It  has  been  my  only 

21 


238  Down  by  the  Sea. 

study  for  fifteen  years,  and  it  has  brought  me  no  conso- 
lation yet." 

"  But  you  have  found  God  in  it,  —  have  you  not  ?  You 
do  not  deny  a  God  ?  " 

"  I  have  found  a  God  in  it  certainly,  but  only  a  God 
who  has  separated  me  eternally  from  all  I  love." 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  assure  you,  you  have  not  yet  found 
the  true  God,  if  you  believe  this." 

"  I  have  found  I  verily  believe  the  God  of  the  Bible, 
and  he  has  said  the  wicked  shall  go  away  into  everlast- 
ing punishment;  and  I  am  the  most  wicked  of  all  God's 
creatures." 

Here  Mrs.  Wayland  left  him  again  standing  upon  the 
colonnade,  and  hurried  rapidly  from  him  down  the  path 
which  led  to  the  sea.  Her  conversation  had  revived  in 
her  heart  all  the  strong  passions  which  slumbered  there, 
and  which  she  usually  held  in  close  repression.  As  she 
paced  wildly  up  arid  down  the  beach,  feeling  in  her 
nearness  to  the  sea  a  sort  of  comfort  as  though  the 
great  ocean  were  her  friend,  she  thought  over  her  whole 
lonely  life.  She  thought  of  her  happy  and  brilliant 
youth,  of  its  gay eties,  its  triumphs,  and  its  great  hopes ; 
she  beheld  herself  the  petted  darling  of  a  joyous  circle 
of  Wrnpanions  and  friends.  She  thought  of  her  journeys 
in  distant  lands,  whither  a  loving  father  had  taken  her, 
and  of  all  the  delights  of  those  years  when  they  had 
wandered  through  all  the  sunny  climes  of  southern 
Europe,  and  so  away  on  to  the  Orient,  where  she  had 
trodden  with  pilgrim  feet  all  the  sacred  places  of  that 


Down  by  the  Sea.  239 

Holy  Land.  It  was  there  she  had  first  met  her  hus- 
band; and  she  dwelt  with  fondness  upon  every  little  in- 
cident which  memory  recalled  of  her  intercourse  with 
him  there,  and  of  how  they  had  sailed  together  upon 
their  return  to  their  native  land.  It  was  then  she  had 
learned  to  love  the  ocean.  In  those  long  days,  when 
they  were  out  upon  the  trackless  deep,  they  had 
learned  together  the  sweet  mystery  of  loving.  Night 
after  night  they  had  paced  the  deck  together,  gazing 
out  upon  the  moonlighted  expanse,  and  watching  the 
breakers  rise  and  fall.  The  long  voyage  had  been  a 
season  of  enchantment.  It  had  passed  into  her  being, 
and  become  a  part  of  her  inmost  life  forever.  She  had 
one  of  those  natures  to  whom  such  things  come  but  once 
in  a  lifetime.  When  they  had  reached  home,  they  had 
been  married,  and,  after  a  year  or  two  of  pleasant  mar- 
ried life,  they  had  built  the  old  gray  house  of  which  I 
have  told  you,  designing  to  pass  their  summers  down 
there  within  hearing  of  the  grand,  eternal  anthem  of  the 
sea.  How  well  she  remembered  the  hurry  they  were  in  to 
get  down  here, —  so  great  a  hurry  that  they  could  not  stop 
to  have  the  house  entirely  finished,  and  so  in  early  May 
they  had  furnished  two  or  three  rooms,  and  livedjhere 
in  a  wild  trance  of  what  seems  to  her  now,  as  she  looks 
back  upon  it,  perfect  bliss.  Here  they  wandered  up 
and  down  the  beach  together  hand  in  hand  for  hours 
and  beheld  the  waters  glowing  in  the  early  tints  of  sun- 
rise, and  reflecting  the  gorgeous  splendors  of  sunset,  and 
rippling  and  shimmering  in  the  bewildering  moonlight. 


240  .         Down  by  the  Sea. 

Then  she  thinks  of  how  gayeties  began  up  at  the  village 
yonder,  and  how  they  began  to  see  much  company  and 
to  mingle  in  all  the  excitements  of  watering-place  life. 
Here  they  had  met  the  beautiful  syren  who  had  stolen 
her  husband  from  her.  With  what  angry  hate  she 
dwells  upon  the  soft,  bewildering  beauty  of  that  woman, 
—  her  rounded,  dimpled  form,  her  golden  hair,  and  the 
languishing  blueness  of  the  dreamy  eyes  !  She  seemed 
in  all  her  bewitching  beauty,  to  the  eye  of  Agnes  Way- 
land,  more  hateful  and  hideous  than  a  fiend.  She  had 
fascinated  Mortimer  Wayland  almost  from  their  first 
meeting.  Of  a  dreamy,  sensuous  temperament,  and  a 
weak  will,  and  with  no  great  power  of  principle  at  his 
back,  the  artful  and  wicked  woman  had  ensnared  him  with 
her  wiles,  and  in  the  meshes  of  her  charms  he  had  for- 
gotten the  grand  and  queenly  wife,  who  to  every  eye  was 
so  infinitely  the  superior  of  one  for  whom  he  was  desert- 
ing her,  and  the  little  year-old  baby,  who  was  just  learn- 
ing to  lisp  "  father  "  to  him  as  he  fondled  him. 

Of  the  wild  tempest  which  tossed  her  soul  at  this  time 
she  dreaded  to  think  even  now.  It  had  been  so  near  to 
madness  that  it  was  a  terror  to  her  yet.  But  pride  had 
always  been  one  of  her  ruling. passions,  and, instead  of 
pleading  with  him  with  a  woman's  tenderness,  as  some 
might  have  done,  she  had  treated  him  with  coldness  and 
disdain,  and  with  reproachful  scorn  had  goaded  him  on 
to  take  the  last  step  in  the  dreadful  drama. 

He  had  deserted  her,  and  with  the  blue-eyed  woman 
had  sailed  for  a  distant  land.  Never  since  that  time. 


Down  by  the  Sea.  241 

now  nearly  twenty  years,  had  she  left,  except  for  her 
lonely  walks,  the  old  gray  house.  She  shut  herself  up 
like  a  hermit,  and  with  wild  and  bitter  grief  cursed  her- 
self and  her  God.  Down  into  the  deepest  gloom  of 
despair  she  went,  where  never  a  single  ray  of  heavenly 
light  and  comfort  reached  her.  Her  child,  indeed,  she 
had  left;  but  although  she  loved  him  with  all  the  concen- 
trated passion  of  her  nature,  he  seemed  little  comfort  to 
her.  She  brooded  continually  upon  the  darkness  of  her 
fate,  and  upon  the  fathomless  depths  of  despair  into 
which  she  was  sinking. 

Then  the  child  died,  and  her  last  human  interest  went; 
and  she  made  its  little  grave  in  the  tangled  garden,  and 
every  year  covered  it  thick  with  flowers.  But  in  her 
heart  no  white  blossom  of  hope  had  ever  sprung  up,  no 
purple  pansy  of  royal  magnanimity  and  forgiveness  had 
yet  blossomed  there.  And  this  night,  after  so  many 
years,  she  was  living  it  all  over  again  with  tragic  inter- 
est, and  no  softened  feelings  of  relenting  or  forgiveness 
entered  her  stern  heart. 

"  He  is  very  happy,"  she  thought  to  herself  as  she 
wended  her  way  back  and  stood  by  her  little  grave;  "  he 
is  very  happy,  for  he  can  stand  by  his  child's  bed  and 
weep ;  and  so  could  I,  if  I  had  his  hope.  O  my  dar- 
ling, my  darling,  darling  boy  !  "  and  she  stooped  down, 
and  threw  her  arms  caressingly  over  the  little  mound. 

"  Oh,  if  God  would  only,  only  let  me  meet  you  once 
more  !  O  my  God,  why  cannot  I  forgive  and  be  for- 
given ? "  v 

21* 


242  Down  by  the  Sea. 

"  My  sister,"  said  the  kind  old  man,  coming  up  and 
hearing  her  last  words;  and  feeling  how  vain  it  would 
be  to  reason  or  expostulate  with  this  woman,  —  "  let  us 
pray;  "  and,  almost  before  she  knew  it,  they  were  kneel- 
ing by  the  little  one's  grave ;  and  before  the  old  minister 
had  concluded  his  simple  but  touching  prayer,  the 
woman,  whose  heart  had  been  stone  for  so  many  years, 
was  weeping,  weeping  with  passionate  sobs  like  a  little 
child;  and  when  he  had  concluded,  she  arose,  and  with- 
out a  word  made  her  way  into  the  house,  and  soon  the 
red  light  shone  in  the  little  window. 

Somehow  after  this  a  more  gentle  feeling  crept  into 
the  heart  of  Mrs.  Wayland.  A  softer  light  came  into 
her  eye,  and  a  more  gestfe  tremor  was  in  her  voice  as 
she  addressed  the  old  minister,  who  saw  that  she  was 
touched,  but  was  too  wise  to  meddle  farther  than  was 
absolutely  necessary  with  the  good  work  which  he  was 
sure  was  going  on. 

It  was  not  many  weeks  from  the  evening  of  which  I 
have  spoken,  when,  as  she  was  returning  from  her  even- 
ing walk,  she  beheld  a  scene  of  bustle  around  the  door  of 
her  house;  a  carriage  was  driving  away,  and  a  trunk 
stood  upon  the  steps,  while  some  figures  seemed  just  en- 
tering the  door  whom  she  could  not  distinguish  in  the 
gathering  darkness.  "  Dr.  Ashly  has  some  friends 
come,"  she  thought,  with  a  feeling  of  impatience ; "  what 
shall  I  do  with  them  ?  "  and  she  walked  quickly  to  the 
house.  As  she  turned  into  the  cheerless  dining-room,  — 
the  only  room  which  was  ever  used  below,  —  she  saw, 


Down  by  the  Sea.  *  243 

stretched  upon  a  couch,  the  figure  of  a  man  propped  up 
by  pillows,  which  seemed  to  have  been  hastily  brought, 
and  looking  pallid  and  wan.  She  walked  quickly  for- 
ward, but  when  she  had  reached  the  middle  of  the  room, 
she  stopped  like  one  transfixed,  and,  with  wild  eyes  full 
of  eagerness  and  something  like  joy,  looked  about  her. 

"  Mortimer  "Wayland  ! "  she  exclaimed  at  last,  grasping 
the  table  for  support.  "  Why  come  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  come  home  to  die,  Agnes.  I  could  not  die  any- 
where else;  I  have  been  for  years  trying  to  do  so, — 
but  God  would  not  let  me.  I  was  forced  to  come  and 
seek  your  forgiveness,  and  God  will  not  take  me  until  I 
have  it;  yet  I  dare  not  ask  you  to  grant  it;  it  is  too 
much  !  "  At  this  the  sick  man  shut  his  eyes  wearily, 
and  said  no  more. 

"  Forgive  us  our  sins  as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass 
against  us,"  solemnly  said  the  voice  of  the  old  minister, 
who  was  sitting  near  the  couch  upon  which  the  man  lay. 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  cannot  know  what  it  is  for  me  to  ask  of 
her.  Most  wrongs  may  be  forgiven;  but  mine  against 
her  is  so  great  that  she  cannot  forgive  me,  I  am  sure, 
unless  God  helps  her.  .1  have  been  suffering  for  it  these 
twenty  years,  —  trying  to  expiate  it;  but  I  have  failed. 
I  have  suffered,  I  have  struggled,  I  have  almost  died 
many  times,  sir;  but  I  could  not  atone  for  my  sin,  and 
God  could  not  forgive  it,  nor  can  she." 

Then  the  minister's  voice  was  heard  again,  and  it 
said,  "  Sister,  remember  the  little  child's  grave  in  the 
garden,  and  forgive  and  be  forgiven." 


244  r   Down  by  the  Sea. 

Then  Mrs.  Wayland,  who  had  stood  like  a  statue  all 
this  time,  rushed  forward,  and,  kneeling  by  the  couch 
poured  forth  her  whole  heart  in  a  torrent  of  passionate 
words,  — 

"  O  my  husband,  my  darling,  my  only  love,  forgive 
me  for  my  coldness  and  my  scorn  !  forgive  me  for  not 
helping  you  to  withstand  temptation,  —  I,  who  was  al- 
ways the  stronger  !  It  was  I  who  drove  you  away, 
and  for  it  I  have  suffered  and  agonized  all  these  years. 
I  have  been  so  hard,  so  wicked  and  cruel,  so  unpitying 
and  unforgiving,  that  I  have  had  no  rest  or  peace 
night  or  day.  It  is  so  blessed  to  feel  that  I  forgive 
you  I  so  joyful  to  think  that  you  will  forgive  me,  — 
that  God  will  forgive  us  both  1  "  and  the  woman  laid 
her  head  upon  his  breast,  and  rained  upon  his  lips  a 
thousand  passionate  kisses. 

Then  Dr.  Ashly  would  have  left  them;  but  the  wo- 
man called  him  back. 

"  Share  in  our  great  joy,  dear  friend,"  she  said ;  "  for, 
had  it  not  been  for  you,  this  would  never  have  been. 
A  few  weeks  ago  I  should  never  have  received  him 
whom  I  loved  even  as  I  had  always  loved,  but  whom 
my  pride  would  have  banished  from  my  door  in  the  face 
of  all  his  pleadings;  but  you  have  softened  my  heart, 
and  to  you  we  owe  this  joyful  hour.  And  now  you 
must  help  me,"  she  continued,  with  a  woman's  thought- 
ful care,  "  to  carry  him  to  my  own  room  upstairs,  which 
is  the  only  comfortable  room  I  have;  and  there  I  can 
nurse  him  up,  and  soon  have  him  well  again." 


Down  by  the  Sea.  245 

And  so  he  was  carried  up  to  the  room  where  she  had 
sat  alone  so  many  years,  and  was  soon  as  comfortable 
as  womanly  care  could  make  him. 

"  How  natural  it  all  looks  here  ! "  he  said,  glancing 
around  the  room.  "  It  is  just  as  it  used  to  be,  —  isn't 
it,  darling  ?  And  I  remember  it  so  well,  —  furnished, 
to  suit  you,  in  crimson,  which  you  still  like,  as  I  see  by 
your  shawl." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  little  blush;  "I  have  always 
worn  it  for  your  sake.  You  used  to  say  it  was  just  the 
color  to  suit  me,  and  I  have  worn  it  all  these  years." 

"  Darling,"  said  he,  looking  all  about  the  room, "  I  see 
no  traces  of  any  one  but  yourself  here.  "Where  is  our 
child,  —  our  little  baby  boy  ?  " 

Agnes  "Wayland  went  softly  up  to  him,  and  put  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  as  she  said, — 

"I  thought,  a  few  weeks  ago,  that  he  was  down  in 
the  garden  under  a  bed  of  pansies ;  but  now  I  know  he 
is  in  heaven,  where  you  and  I  will  soon  join  him." 


WHY  MRS.  RADNOR  FAINTED. 

(247) 


WHY  MRS.  RADNOR  FAINTED. 


[OTJ  have  seen  hazel  eyes,  —  have  you  not  ?  I 
don't  mean  the  quiet  nut-brown  ones,  you  meet 
every  day,  but  bona,  fide  hazel  eyes,  opaline 
in  their  wonderful  changes,  —  that  make  you 
wonder,  when  you  turn  away  from  them,  what 
color  they  will  have  assumed  when  you  next  look  into 
their  depths;  for  such  eyes  have  depths,  sometimes 
glowing  emerald-like,  with  a  steady,  lambent  flame,  now 
gleaming  with  a  soft  lustre  like  pearls,  or  melted  into 
sapphires  by  tears. 

Such  eyes  had  Mrs.  Kadnor,  —  cold,  beautiful  woman 
that  she  was ;  insensible,  I  was  about  to  say,  only  I  re- 
member her  fainting  at  sight  of  a  pond-lily.  How  well 
I  recollect  the  day  !  There  was  a  party  of  us  passing 
the  midsummer  at  the  old  Richmond  farm,  a  few  miles 

from ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ferdinand  Kadnor  among  the 

rest.    The  latter,  a  haughty  statuesque  woman,  with 

nothing  save  her  wonderful  eyes  to  indicate  anything 

approaching  a  heart, — lovely  as  a  dream,  yet  with 

22  (249) 


250  Why  Mrs.  Radnor  fainted. 

beauty  that  repelled  even  in  its  fascination.  Such  hair, 
too,  as  she  had,  rolling  in  golden  ripples  down  fo  her 
slencTer  feet;  —  fine  as  silk,  it  was  brown  in  the  shade, 
but  glowed  and  intensified  in  the  light  till  it  seemed  as  if 
a  thousand  stray  sunbeams  were  imprisoned  in  the  radi- 
ant mass.  We  always  called  her  the  u  Princess  with  the 
golden  locks."  You  remember  her  in  the  fairytale,  —  do 
you  not '?  That  one,  I  mean,  whose  hair  was  the  wonder 
and  admiration  of  the  whole  world,  and  whose  lovers 
delighted  to  bind  themselves  with  fetters  so  exquisite; 
yet  when  they  strove  playfully  to  throw  them  off,  they 
found  themselves  with  gyves  and  manacles  of  steel,  un- 
der which  they  were  powerless.  . 

Mr.  Kadnor  was  urbane  and  gentlemanly;  but,  pos- 
sessing only  half  a  soul,  he  divided  the  interest  of  that 
equally  between  admiring  his  own  person  and  annoying 
Mrs.  Radnor  by  his  attentions. 

It  was  a  sultry  July  day,  and  we  were  all  of  us  on  the 
rose-terrace  back  of  the  house,  some  dozing,  —  I  pre- 
tending to  read,  though  all  the  time  watching  the 
"  Princess  "  furtively  from  the  shelter  of  my  book. 

She  had  a  pile  of  cushions  spread  with  a  scarlet  shawl, 
and,  like  an  Eastern  beauty,  lay  languidly  upon  them. 
Her  dress  of  palest  blue  was  open  at  the  throat,  and  her 
hands  toyed  listlessly  with  the  heavy  cord  that  confined 
her  waist.  There  was  a  blush-rose  tint  on  her  usually 
pale  cheek,  and  her  hair,  half  escaped  from  its  little  net, 
lay  like  flecks  of  gold  on  the  scarlet  cover.  I  think  I 
never  saw  repose,  utter  and  perfect,  before. 


Why  Mrs.  Radnor  fainted.          251 

"  Down  through  her  limbs  a  drooping  languor  crept, 
Her  head  a  little  bent,  and  on  her  mouth 
A  doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a  clouded  moon 
In  a  still  water." 

Suddenly  the  charmed  silence  was  broken,  for  round 
the  corner  of  the  house  came  Mr.  Kadnor,  with  his  arms 
filled  with  superb  water-lilies,  which  he  threw  in  a  fra- 
grant shower  over  his  wife.  He  was  saluted  with  excla- 
mations of  wonder  and  delight,  and  while  he  was  reply- 
ing, I  had  leisure  to  observe  his  wife. 

The  change  was  frightful:  an  ashen  pallor  had 
spread  itself  over  her  face,  she  was  panting  violently 
for  breath,  and,  at  the  same  time,  attempting  to  clasp 
both  hands  before  her  eyes.  I  cried  aloud  and  sprang 
towards  her,  —  but  it  was  too  late. 

Mrs.  Eadnor  had  fainted  ! 

At  the  same  time,  Anne  Kichmond  threw  herself  upon 
her  knees  beside  her,  and,  hastily  gathering  the  snowy 
flowers  from  her  dress  and  bosom,  where  they  had  fall- 
en, thrust  them  into  Mr.  Radnor's  arms,  saying  hurried- 
ly, as  she  did  so,  — 

"  Pray,  pray,  take  them  away,  sir,  or  your  wife  will  die." 

He  obeyed  blankly,  and  together  Anne  and  I  applied 
the  usual  restoratives,  and,  after  some  minutes,  were  re- 
warded by  a  faint  color  in  her  lips,  then  a  quivering  of 
the  mouth,  and  I  heard  her  murmur  faintly,  —  "I  saw 
him  again,  Anne.  Oh,  those  dreadful  flowers  ! " 

Then  her  eyes  opened,  —  those  wonderful  eyes,  that 
were  then  almost  startling  in  their  blackness.  She  looked 


252  Why  Mrs.  Radnor  Fainted. 

wildly  round  her  for  a  single  second,  and,  catching 
sight  of  me,  was  herself  again,  —  haughty,  self-sustained 
as  before,  even  though  lying  helpless  as  a  child  on  Anne 
Richmond's  arms. 

And,  after  all,  pride  is  better  for  a  fainting  woman  than 
all  the  sal  volatile  in  the  world,  thought  I,  receiving  her 
languidly  uttered  thanks,  and  retreating. 

We  saw  no  more  of  Mrs.  Eadnor  that  day.  Her  hus- 
band talked  loudly  of  the  extreme  heat;  and  no  one  but 
the  two  who  had  observed  the  expression  of  her  face 
when  the  perfume  of  the  lilies  first  met  her  senses,  knew 
anything  to  the  contrary.  As  for  me,  I  was  restless  and 
unquiet.  There  had  been  from  the  first  a  nameless 
something  about  Mrs.  Eadnor  which  had  excited  my 
deepest  interest,  and  now  my  imagination  was  busy. 
One  thing  the  painful  scene  of  the  morning  had  con- 
vinced me  of,  and  that  was,  that  some  time  in  the  past 
she  had  been  quickened  into  life  by  the  breath  of  love, 
and  the  flowers  had  played  a  terrible  part  in  over- 
whelming her  with  memories  possibly  long  buried  in 
the  deepest  recesses  of  her  heart;  for  —  I  acknowledged 
it  —  Mrs.  Eadnor  had  a  heart.  I  never  doubted  it  from 
the  moment  in  which  her  face  changed  from  its  quiet 
repose  into  that  torturing  expression  of  fear  that  it 
wore  when  she  fainted. 

"  Anne,"  I  said  that  evening  to  Miss  Eichmond,  as  I 
drew  her  into  my  chamber  after  the  party  had  separated 
for  the  night, "  tell  me  something  of  Mrs.  Eadnor.  I  am 
sure  you  are  in  some  way  concerned  in  her  past." 


Why  Mrs.  Radnor  fainted.          253 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  little,  fluttering  sigh; 
"  there  is  one  page  of  her  life  that  no  one  living  has 
ever  read  but  myself.  Perhaps  I  do  wrong  in  consent- 
ing to  turn  it  for  you;  but  it  may  be  a  warning  to  you, 
child.  To-morrow  we  will  go  down  to  the  lake  together, 
and  I  will  tell  you  what  has  changed  Mrs.  Eadnor,  from 
the  brightest,  sunniest  girl  that  ever  lived,  to  the  breath- 
ing statue  that  she  has  been  for  ten  years." 

She  sighed  again,  as  she  kissed  my  cheek,  and  then  I 
heard  her  footsteps  die  away  in  the  long  corridor. 

My  room  was  in  the  second  story,  and  directly  over 
those  occupied  by  the  Kadnors,  which  opened  on  a  bal- 
cony leading  down  by  a  little  flight  of  steps  to  the  lawn. 

The  night  was  sultry  and  still.  All  the  usual  bustle 
and  stir  of  retiring  had  ceased,  and,  extinguishing  my 
candle,  I  curled  myself  on  the  broad  window-seat, 
watching  the  stars  that  seemed  to  smile  in  the  hazy  at- 
mosphere. It  was  late,  —  nearly  midnight,  I  think;  and 
I  drank  with  delight  the  heavy  fragrance  which  that 
hour  always  seems  to  draw  from  the  heliotrope,  great 
masses  of  which  grew  under  my  windows.  I  do  not 
know  how  long  I  sat  there.  Waking  dreams,  such  as 
flit  lightly  in  the  tender  stillness  of  summer  nights, 
wooed  me  with  delicious  repose.  I  fancied  myself  be- 
neath Eastern  skies,  and  the  faint  stir  of  a  bird  in  a 
neighboring  tree  seemed  to  me  the  pluming  of  a  bulbul's 
wing;  and  through  the  gilded  lattice  of  the  harem  two 
starry  eyes  —  and  they  were  Mrs.  Radnor's  —  glittered 
and  gleamed.  The  soft  running  of  a  brook  through 
22* 


254  Why  Mrs.  Radnor  fainted. 

the  grounds  was  the  lapping  of  waves  against  Venice 
stones.  I  heard  the  twinkle  of  a  guitar,  and,  framed 
by  carved,  gray  stone  work,  her  rippling  golden  hair 
stirred  liTT^e  night-breeze. 

Then  everything  faded,  and  I  slept  a  moment  or  an 
hour,  —  I  cannot  say  which,  so  softly  had  the  hours 
passed  in  softest  sandals,  —  and  it  was  with  a  start  that 
I  sat  upright  and  heard,  with  a  keen  thrill  of  fear,  a 
faint  click,  as  of  a  drawn  bolt,  and  immediately  the  dis- 
tant bell  of  St.  Michael's  pealing  out. 

One — two;  and  with  the  dying  of  the  second  stroke 
there  was  a  rustling  sound  beneath  rny  window,  and 
then  a  shuddering  whisper,  —  "  My  God  !  my  God  ! 
have  mercy  upon  me  I  " 

Shrouded  by  a  half-closed  blind,  I  peered  out,  and, 
kneeling  on  the  balcony  below,  I  saw  a  white  figure  il- 
luminated by  the  strange,  weird  light  of  a  waning  moon. 
The  face  was  uplifted,  and  the  expression  might  have 
been  that  worn  by  Maria  Therese  in  the  solitude  of  her 
chamber  when  the  Archduchess  Josepha  died. 

I  drew  back, — it  seemed  like  profanity  for  any  but 
the  God  to  whom  she  appealed  to  witness  her  despair,  — 
for  it  was  Mrs.  Radnor.  I  heard  a  long,  deep-drawn 
sigh,  a  footstep,  and  then  the  silky  tones  of  her  husband. 

"  My  love, —  why  will  you  ?  The  dew  is  very  heavy." 
Then  a  stir  and  the  sound  of  a  closing  door. 

I  shivered  in  the  ghostly  light  that  had  crept  into  my 
window,  and,  softly  closing  my  blinds,  I  laid  down  to 
sleep  if  I  could. 


Why  Mrs.  Radnor  Fainted.          255 

The  first  person  I  saw,  on  entering  the  breakfast-room 
the  next  morning,  was  Mrs.  Eadnor,  pale  as  the  muslin 
wrapper  she  wore,  but  as  coldly  self-contained  as  usual. 
I  felt  the  passionate  sympathy,  which  had  taken  firm 
hold  on  me  since  the  scenes  of  the  previous  night,  almost 
vanish  before  her  languidly  uttered  replies  to  my  inqui- 
ries for  her  health.  It  was  only  in  watching  the  droop- 
ing corners  of  her  rarely  beautiful  mouth  and  the  violet 
circles  beneath  the  wonderful  eyes,  that  I  could  connect 
the  haughty  being  before  me  with  the  utterer  of  the 
despairing  cry  of  the  night  before. 

The  day  wore  on  slowly  enough  to  me,  and  it  was 
only  when  the  lengthened  shadows  on  the  terrace,  and 
Miss  Richmond,  equipped  for  her  walk,  greeted  my  eyes, 
that  my  impatience  subsided. 

The  path  led  us  through  a  shady  grove  of  pines,  th%|t 
sighed  mournfully  as  one  passed  through  them,  then 
across  a  sloping  interval  made  green  by  recent  rains, 
and  so  down  through  a  fringe  of  alders  to  a  little  seat 
close  by  the  margin  of  a  charming  lake  on  which  myri- 
ads of  water-lilies  were  closing  their  cups  of  incense. 

"Sit  here,"  said  Anne,  pointing  to  a  place  at  her 
Bide. 

"  It  is  not  always  pleasant  to  think  or  speak  of  the 
past,"  she  began,  after  a  few  moments'  silence,  "  al- 
though day  by  day  its  scenes  and  actors  appear  to  us. 
There  are  some  memories  in  every  heart  that  thrill  us 
with  grief  unutterable,  and  when  you  know  that  one  per- 
son in  the  story  which  I  shall  tell  you  was  dear  to  me  as 


256  Why  Mrs.  Radnor  Fainttd. 

my  own  sooL  you  win  not  wonder  if  my  fip  falters  or  I 
fifl  to  dweD  on  the  more  painful  portions  of  h." 

Then  for  the  first  time  I  was  aware  of  another  un- 
written heart-history,  and  knew  why  the  soft  lips  and 
eyes  of  the  woman  beside  me  had  so  often  uttered  their 
fatal  no. 

-Ten  years  ago."  die  said,  u oar  boose  was  foil  of 
1,111  nlii.  and  among  them  was  Eleanor  Orne,  —  the  most 
paifatilj  beautiful  girl  I  ever  beheld.  Fancy  Mr*.  Rad- 
nor, younger  by  as  many  years,  with  a  bewildering 
smOe  ever  ready  to  play  around  the  lovely  month,  with 
expressions  as  rapidly  following  thunmJyes  in  her  eyes 
as  clouds  on  an  April  day.  and  you  can  form  a  faint  idea 
of  her  lorefiness. 

~  There  was  also  a  young  sfndmt  of  divinity,  with  an 
qpe  as  dear  as  a  star  and  a  soul  pure  as  prayer  itself. 
Proud  and  calm  he  was;  but  it  was  a  noble  pride  that 
clothed  him  as  with  a  garment,  and  a  gracious  ralimw** 
resulting  from  a  vaulting  intellect,  subdued  and  chas- 
tened by  firmest  faith. 

-  He  had  been  fond  of  me  in  a  way.  but  from  the  night 
that  Eleanor  came  floating  down  the  long  F"^*Tfft,  attired 
in  some  diaphanous  gray  that  streamed  around  her  like 
mist,  I  knew  how   it  would  be.     I  marked,  with  one 
great  heart-throb,  the  perfect  delight  that  flashed  in  his 
dark  eyes  as  they  rested  upon  her  face  and  form. 

-  After  that  they  were  always  together.    In  the  morn- 
ings he  was  reading  to  her  as  she  worked;  on  after- 
noons, rocking  together  in  the  little  boat  on  the  lake; 


Why  Mrs.  Radnor  Fainted.          257 

and  then,  in  the  purple  twilight,  Bringing  dreamy  German 
music,  of  which  they  were  both  passionately  food. 

"I  soon  knew  that  James  Alexander  loved  her.  I  read 
it  in  every  glance,  hi  every  tone.  Bat  Eleanor  ?  I  was 
not  sore.  Watch  her  as  narrowly  as  I  would,  I  could  not 
see  that  the  rose  in  her  cheek  became  a  deeper  pink  when 
he  approached,  or  that  her  eyes  were  raised  more  tenderly 
to  him  than  to  a  dozen  others  who  sought  her  smites. 

"There  had  been  rumors  of  Eleanors  engagement  and 
approaching  marriage,  which  had  drifted  to  me  from 
her  city  home;  but,  when  I  saw  her  day  by  day  allow- 
ing him  to  become  more  attached  to  her, — for  she  could 
not  fafl  to  perceive  it  all,  —  I  rejected  the  rumor,  and 
with  it  the  impulse  which  had  prompted  me  to  repeat  it 
to  James,  that  he  might,  if  not  already  too  late,  be  upon 
his  guard. 

"  At  last  the  end  came.  I  dozed  one  day  on  a  soft  hi 
an  inner  room,  and  watched  with  delicious  delight  my 
dream  of  fair  woman  that  a  dark-velvet  lounging-chair 
brought  out  in  clear  relief.  Eleanor  sat  there,  with 
downcast  eyes  and  clasped  hands.  Suddenly  a  step, 
hurried  and  joyous  hi  its  very  lightness,  sounded  hi  the 
hall;  the  door  opened  and  closed  again,  and  Alexander 
stood  before  her  with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

" '  See,'  he  said,  speaking  rapidly,  *  it  has  come  at 
last,  and  I  may  speak.  It  is  a  can  to  one  of  the  larg- 
est parishes  in  your  own  city,  and£  may  say,  what 
you  must  have  known  for  weeks  past,  that  I  love  you, 
Eleanor,  deeply,  devotedly;  that  I  want  you.  My 


258  Why  Mrs.  Radnor  Fainted. 

darling,  tell  me  that  you  are  not  indifferent  to  me, — 
that  you  will  be  my  wife.' 

"It  was  too  late  for  me  to  move;  and  something  — 
perhaps  it  was  a  kind  of  dull  despair  —  kept  me  motion- 
less, with  eyes  riveted  upon  the  group. 

" '  Speak  to  me,  Eleanor,'  he  said,  more  eagerly,  bend- 
ing over  her  as  he  spoke. 

"I  saw  her  face  flush,  and  an  almost  imperceptible 
shrinking  from  him,  that  made  him  quickly  draw  back. 

" '  Speak,  Miss  Orne,  —  Eleanor,  I  implore  you.' 

" '  Oh,  why  have  you  said  this  to  me  ? '  she  answered, 
faintly.  '  I  cannot  hear  you,  Mr.  Alexander.  I  am  to 
be  married  next  month.' 

"  I  saw  him  reel  for  an  instant  as  one  would  under  a 
heavy  blow,  and  heard  a  deep  sigh  —  almost  a  groan  — 
burst  from  him ;  then  a  silence  so  long  and  so  profound 
that  I  could  hear  my  heart  beat  At  last  he  spoke,  in  a 
voice  husky  and  changed,  — 

"'Forgive  me.  I  did  not  mean  to  offend;  but  God 
knows  what  a  mercy  it  would  have  been  if  I  could  have 
known  this  before.  I  may  touch  your  hand  once,  — 
may  I  not  ?  And  you  will  look  up  into  my  face  ?  No, 
not  that !  Grant  me  this,  at  least  then,  before  our 
long  parting.'  And  he  bent  and  kissed  one  of  the  sunny 
curls  that  streamed  over  the  chair.  Then  I  saw  him 
raise  one  hand  over  her  as  in  benediction,  and,  in  an- 
other moment,  he  was  gone.  I  looked  at  Eleanor. 
She  had  risen  from  her  seat,  and  moved  a  step  or  two 
towards  the  door. 


Why  Mrs.  Radnor  fainted.  259 

" '  O  James,  James,  I  love  you ! '  she  said,  piteously ; 
and  then  I  had  just  time  to  break  her  falL 

"  An  hour  later,  I  met  him  on  the  door-step.  *  I  am 
glad  to  have  seen  you,'  he  said  slowly, '  and  to  thank 
you  for  your  kindness;  for  I  am  going  away.  You  will 
be  good  to  Tier,  Anne,  for  my  sake, — will  you  not?' 

"  He  turned  from  me,  and  passed  down  the  walk.  I 
watched  him  until  a  sharp  turn  hid  him  from  my  sight. 
I  never  saw  him  afterwards  alive. 

"  The  next  day  it  rained,  and  the  next;  and  it  was  not 
until  the  third  day  that  Eleanor  and  I  took  our  usual 
walk.  As  we  left  the  house,  she  suggested  that  we 
shape  our  way  towards  the  lake.  Agreeing,  we  walked 
on  slowly,  and  I  tried  to  make  James  Alexander  the 
subject  of  our  talk.  At  first  she  evaded  me;  and,  when 
at  last  she  found  my  persistence  was  not  in  any  other 
way  to  be  turned  aside,  said,  — 

"'  It  is  an  unpleasant  subject  to  me,  dear  Anne.  I  fear 
I  have  much  to  blame  myself  for.  I  suffer  enough;  for, 
in  rejecting  his  love,  I  shut  my  eyes  on  a  life  that  would 
have  been  a  continual  delight,  to  open  them  on  one  from 
which  my  very  soul  shrinks  abhorrently,  and  yet  to 
which  I  am  solemnly  pledged.' 

" '  But  it  may  not  yet  be  too  late,'  I  said,  eagerly;  for 
God  knows  I  loved  James  Alexander  with  no  selfish 
love. 

" '  Yes,  it  is  too  late,'  she  replied  mournfully.  '  I  shall 
never  allude  to  it  again,  Anne ;  but  I  tell  you  now,  that 


260  Why  Mrs.  Radnor  Fainted. 

I  do  not  and  can  never  love  Mr.  Radnor;  but  there  arc 
family  reasons  that  make  the  sacrifice  of  my  hand 
a  necessity.  I  never  realized,  until  within  the  last 
few  weeks,  that  it  teas  such  a  sacrifice.  I  have  been 
so  happy,  that  I  dared  not  break  the  spell  by  telling 
him  the  truth.  And  somehow  the  future  seemed  very 
far;  and  I  did  not  dream  that  this  summer  would  ever 
end.' 

"  Then  there  was  silence  between  us  for  a  space.  At 
last  she  spoke  again,  — 

" '  I  hope  he  will  not  suflfer  long.  Tell  him  some  time, 
Anne,  what  I  have  told  you.  He  will  not  quite  hate  me, 
perhaps,  then,  if  he  knows  that  I  was  not  drawing  him 
on  to  gratify  a  foolish  coquetry,  but  loved  and  suffered 
like  himself 

"  I  was  about  to  reply,  but  she  laid  her  hand  on  my 
mouth. 

" '  N"o,'  she  said.  '  Let  the  subject  go  now  forever. 
And  no  one  will  dream  by-and-by  how  fair  a  love  lies 
buried  beneath  my  laces  and  jewels;  or  that,  in  the  life 
of  the  noted  man  that  he  will  one  day  surely  become,  is 
a  romance  that  belongs  to  a  dead  past.  It  will  all  be 
the  same  a  century  hence.  What  does  it  matter  after 
all?' 

"  But  her  words  ended  with  a  sigh  that  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  forced  lightness  of  her  tone. 

"  Just  then  we  came  out  of  the  grove,  and  could  see  far 
off  the  little  waves  of  the  lake  dancing  in  the  morning 
sunlight.  I  paused  a  moment  to  pick  some  late  wild 


Why  Mrs.  Radnor  Fainted.  261 

flowers,  while  Eleanor  walked  on  quickly  and  disap- 
peared among  the  alders  that  fringed  the  lake.  I  was 
following  her  slowly,  when  suddenly  I  heard  one  wild, 
thrilling  cry,  and  then  my  name  three  times  repeated. 
1  flew  almost  down  to  the  water,  and  there  I  saw  Elea- 
nor unconscious;  and,  close  to  the  shore,  among  the  lilies, 
—  white  and  pure  as  their  own  petals,  —  a  face  upturned 
to  the  sky,  swaying  gently  with  the  motion  of  the 
water.  I  need  not  tell  you  whose."  Anne  faltered. 

"  Do  not  go  on,"  I  said,  with  my  own  eyes  and  voice 
full  of  tears. 

She  raised  her  head  quickly. 

"  I  had  schooled  myself  to  it,  dear,  before  I  came,  and 
I  must  finish.  I  am  telling  you  of  another's  life,  not 
mine. 

"  Then  there  was  a  brain  fever  for  Eleanor,  that  no 
one  believed  she  would  ever  rally  from,  in  which  she  was 
either  unconscious,  or  else  singing  snatches  of  German 
songs,  with  a  pathos  that  was  heart-rending. 

"  It  was  remarkable  that  neither  to  her  mother  nor  to 
any  one  who  watched  over  her  did  her  words  ever  be- 
tray anything  that  could  connect  her  illness  with  any- 
thing more  than  the  bare  horror  of  the  discovery  she 
made.  She  was  married  the  next  spring;  and  when  I 
saw  her,  a  month  afterward,  I  should  never,  save  for 
merest  outline  and  coloring  of  beauty,  have  recognized 
her.  Until  last  night,  the  past  has  never  been  alluded 
to  by  either  of  us.  Then  she  confessed  to  me,  that  dur- 
ing the  last  ten  years  her  life  has  been  haunted  by  a  per- 
23 


262  Why  Mrs.  Ragnor  Fainted. 

petual  remorse.  The  sun  has  set,  dear,  we  will  go 
home." 

It  was  dusk  when  we  crossed  the  pine  grove,  and  the 
branches  of  the  trees  seemed,  to  my  quickened  imagi- 
nation, to  be  singing  a  sad  refrain  to  the  story  I  had 
heard.  "We  walked  slowly,  —  Anne  with  head  uplifted 
and  a  serene  look  upon  her  fair  face  that  made  me  real- 
ize the  refiner's  work. 

As  we  drew  near  the  house  there  came  forth  a  roll- 
ing symphony  from  the  parlor  organ,  and  then  a  voice 
that  I  had  never  heard  before,  in  the  Agnus  Dei  of  the 
Twelfth  Mass. 

"We  paused,  and  Anne  said  quietly,  —  "  She  has  never 
sung  since  he  died  until  now." 

"We  waited  until  the  pure,  pathetic  tones  had  died 
away.  Silence  and  the  spirit  of  the  hour  was  upon  us. 
Overhead  the  large,  calm  stars  hung  low  and  bright.  A 
gleam  of  light  in  Mrs.  Radnor's  rooms  flashed  for  an  in- 
stant, and  disappeared;  and  a  white  figure  came  out 
upon  the  balcony  of  her  apartment. 

"  Kyrie  Eleison,"  said  Anne,  in  a  hushed  voice.  "  Let 
us  go  in." 


UNDER   A   CLOUD. 


(263) 


UNDER  A  CLOUD. 


bitter  cold  day  in  January,  four  years  ago, 
I  had  occasion  to  wait  for  a  street-car  in  Chi- 
cago, on  one  of  those  aside  lines  where  the  cars 
pass  but  once  in  every  ten  or  fifteen  minutes. 
There  was  a  German  lager-bier  saloon  close 
by,  and  I  entered  it  for  shelter.  As  I  stood  by  the 
stove,  enjoying  the  grateful  warmth,  I  observed  near 
me  a  young  man,  in  very  seedy  apparel,  engaged  in 
reading  the  Staats-Zeitung.  Something  in  the  air  of  the 
young  man  awakened  my  curiosity,  and  led  me  to  ad- 
dress him.  Although  reading  a  German  newspaper,  he 
was  not  a  German  in  appearance,  and  I  put  to  him  the 
question,  "  Sind  Sie  Deutsch  ?  "  by  way  of  experiment. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  not  German,  but  I  speak 
and  read  the  language." 

I  drew  a  chair  near  him,  as  he  laid  aside  the  news- 
paper, with  the  air  of  one  willing  to  enter  into  conver- 
sation. 

"  Where  did  you  pick  up  your  German  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  I  picked  it  up,"  said  the»young  man,  with  an  air  of 
23  *  (265) 


266  Under  a  Cloud. 

some  pride  in  the  statement,  "  where  I  picked  up  my 
Latin  and  Greek,  —  at  college." 

At  this  I  ran  my  eye  over  him  curiously.  He  had 
not  the  appearance  of  a  scholar. 

"  You  look  surprised,"  said  he.  "  Despite  my  present 
appearance,  and  the  place  you  find  me  in,  I  am  a  gradu- 
ate ;  but  at  present,  I  am  under  a  cloud." 

"  So  I  should  imagine." 

I  also  imagined  that  the  young  man  was  probably 
shiftless,  and  no  doubt  addicted  to  liquor;  but  I  did  not 
say  so.  As  if  he  read  my  thoughts,  he  spoke  again: 

"  People  are  always  ready  to  think  ill  of  a  seedy  man, 
I  suppose.  Probably  you  think  me  a  good-for-nothing, 
and  would  give  me  some  valuable  advice  about  hanging 
around  beer-saloons;  but  the  fact  is,  I  am  an  employe 
of  this  establishment." 

He  spoke  with  a  bitter  irony,  that  ill-concealed  a  sort 
of  shame  in  the  confession. 

"  May  I  ask  in  what  capacity  ?  "  said  I. 

"  You  may,  sir;  and  I  may  answer  or  not,  I  suppose. 
I  think  I  will  decline  to  answer.  As  I  said,  I  am  under 
a  cloud.  I  am  not  proud  of  my  employment,  but  I  do 
what  I  do  because  I  can't  do  better,  and  idleness  is 
synonymous  with  hunger  and  cold  for  me  and  mine." 

"  You  are  married,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  —  with  sudden  reserve.  f  . . 

"  Don't  be  offended  at  my  inquisitiveness,"  said  I.  "  I 
spoke  to  you  first  out  of  mere  curiosity,  it  is  true;  but 
I  speak  now  out  of  interest.in  you.  If  I  could  help  you, 
I  would.  There  is  my  card." 


Under  a  Cloud.  267 

He  took  it  with  a  respectful  inclination  of  the  head. 

"I've  heard  of  you,"  said  he,  as  he  glanced  at  the 
name.  "  I  can't  give  you  my  card,  sir,  because  I  don't 
own  such  a  thing."  He  smiled.  "  My  name  is  Brock 
St  John." 

"  I  hear  the  car  coming,"  said  I.  "  I'll  see  you  again, 
Mr.  St.  John.  I  don't  set  up  for  a  philanthropist;  but 
I  like  to  do  a-  good  turn  when  I  can.  Good-morning." 

And  I  went  my  own  way. 

Henry  Kingsley,  —  or  rather  a  character  of  his  crea- 
tion,—  in  one  of  his  novels,  remarks  that  he  suspects 
there  is  some  of  the  poetical  faculty  about  him,  because 
he  is  accustomed  to  walk  out  of  nights  when  anything 
goes  wrong. 

This  is  also  my  case. 

To  " fetch  a  walk"  about  the  streets,  late  in  the 
evening,  has  long  been  a  favorite  antidote  for  trouble 
with  me.  When  the  night  is  stormy,  the  value  of  this 
remedy  for  fretting  cares  is  tenfold  increased.  There  is 
an  exhilarating  sense  of  power  in  overcoming  the  op- 
posing forces  of  the  elements,  and  breasting  along  at  a 
brisk  pace  against  a  furious  storm  of  sleet  or  rain.  As 
Leigh  Hunt  said,  you  have  a  feeling  of  respect  for  your 
legs  under  such  circumstances ;  you  admire  their  tough- 
ness as  they  propel  you  along  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm. 
As  your  blood  begins  to  warm  up,  and  to  whirl  through 
your  veins  with  an  exhilaration  beside  which  that  of 
wine  is  tame  and  effeminate,  the  "  blues "  that  have 
been  gibing  you  vanish  like  magic.  Always,  after  such 


268  Under  a  Cloud. 

a  bout,  I  return  home  and  "  sleep  like  a  top,"  no  matter 
what  discomforts  or  sorrows  have  been  running  their 
sleep-dispelling  race  through  my  head  before  starting 
out. 

On  the  night  of  the  day  that  I  met  St.  John  I  started 
out  about  eleven  o'clock  for  such  a  walk.  The  winds 
were  holding  high  carnival  that  night,  and  a  fierce 
storm  of  mingled  hail  and  rain  swept  through  the  almost 
deserted  streets.  I  forged  along  (as  the  sailors  say),  with 
my  head  down,  block  after  block,  fighting  the  forces  of 
nature,  with  the  same  pleasure  that  Victor  Hugo's  hero 
felt,  no  doubt,  in  like  effort.  True,  my  fight  was  to  his 
as  a  cock-fight  is  to  an  encounter  of  lions ;  but  the  limit 
of  power  is  the  limit  of  delight  in  overcoming  in  any 
case.  The  boy  who  declaims  "  the  Roman  Soldier " 
at  school  to  the  rapture  of  his  gaping  audience  is  as 
happy  in  his  achievement  as  the  tragedian  who  thrills  a 
theatreful.  Gilliatt  conquered  storms,  and  so  did  I;  he 
was  on  the  high  seas,  and  I  was  in  the  streets  of  Chi- 
cago. 

Sounds  of  music  and  dancing  fell  on  my  ear.  They 
came  from  the  beer-saloon  of  the  morning.  Curiosity 
impelled  me  to  enter. 

The  air  was  reeking  with  tobacco-smoke  and  the 
fumes  of  .lager-bier.  The  seats  about  the  half-dozen 
tables  were  crowded  with  Teutonic  guzzlers;  and,  at 
the  lower  part  of  the  room  there  was  a  cleared  space 
where  a  half-dozen  couples  were  whirling  in  a  waltz 
with  that  thorough  abandon  which  characterizes  your 


Under  a  Cloud.  269 

German  in  his  national  dance.  On  a  slightly  raised 
platform  against  the  wall  was  a  band  composed  of  a 
violin,  a  clarionet,  and  a  trombone. 

The  violinist  was  my  acquaintance  of  the  morning. 

He  caught  sight  of  me  as  I  elbowed  my  way  toward 
the  dancing-floor,  and  blushed  violently.  Then  an  ex- 
pression of  angry  pride  settled  on  his  countenance,  and  he 
continued  his  playing  with  stolid  indifference  to  my  gaze. 

When  the  dance  was  over  (and  St.  John  kept  up  the 
music  till  the  surprised  Teutons  who  played  the  wind- 
instruments  were  sheer  worn-out  with  their  prolonged 
exertions),  I  went  up  to  the  young  man,  and  shook 
hands  with  him. 

"  At  work,  eh  V  "  I  remarked,  with  a  miserable  effort 
to  seem  cheerful  and  easy. 

"  Yes,  sir.  You  have  found  me  out.  You  know  now 
how  I  keep  the  wolf  from  my  door." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  St.  John;  and  I  do  not  forget  that  it  is  to 
keep  the  wolf  from  your  door.  Still,  I  hope  you  are 
thoroughly  misplaced  here,  —  I  hope  you  are  !  " 

He  grasped  my  hand  with  a  quick,  strong  pressure. 

"  I  must  prove  to  you  that  I  am,  that's  all,"  said  he ; 
"  come  to  —  to  where  I  live,  to-morrow,  and  let  me  tell 
you  the  whole  story." 

He  took  my  pencil  and  wrote  the  address  in  my  note- 
book. 

"  To-morrow  afternoon,"  said  I,  "  I  will  call." 

The  next  day  I  found  my  way  to  the  wretched  tene- 
ment house  in  North  Clark  street,  where  St.  John  lived. 


270  Under  a  Cloud. 

and  climbed  three  pair  of  stairs  to  the  door  of  his  room. 
I  rapped,  and  the  young  man  opened  the  door. 

I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  poverty  in  my  day,  and  I 
was  prepared  to  find  it  here,  as  I  did.  But  I  was  not 
prepared  for  the  sight  of  such  a  beautiful  young  face  as 
that  which  met  ray  gaze  here,  and  to  the  possessor  of 
which  St.  John  introduced  me  as  his  wife.  She  seemed 
like  some  little  girl  that  was  lost.  The  unmistakable  air 
of  the  true  lady  showed  itself  in  every  detail  of  her 
dress  and  manner,  —  in  the  small,  white  collar  at  the 
neck  of  the  calico  dress,  in  the  smooth-banded  hair  that 
matched  the  brown  eyes,  in  the  quiet  demeanor  that  told 
of  natural  and  unconscious  self-respect.  It  showed  it- 
self, too,  in  the  perfect  neatness  of  the  room,  in  which 
there  was  a  cheerful,  home-like  air,  despite  the  poor  and 
barren  nature  of  its  furnishings.  The  room  was  kitchen 
and  bedroom,  dining-room  and  sitting-room,  in  one;  but 
the  bed  was  smooth  and  clean,  and  the  little  cooking- 
stove  was  without  spot. 

Mrs.  St.  John  was  engaged  in  the  unpoetic  occupation 
of  mending  her  husband's  only  coat.  B[e  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves. 

"  Aggie  expected  to  get  the  coat  done  before  our  guest 
came,"  said  St.  John,  with  a  smile.  "  If  you  are  at  all 
particular,  I'll  put  it  on  with  the  needie  sticking  in  it, 
and  she  can  finish  it  after  you  are  gone.  But  I  am  ac- 
customed to  sitting  in  my  shirt-sleeves." 

"  So  am  I,"  was  my  reply;  and,  accordingly,  I  pulkui 
off  my  own  coat,  and  sat  in  my  shirt-sleeves,  too.  lu 
the  act,  my  cigar-case  fell  out  of  my  pocket. 


Under  a  Cloud.  271 

"  Light  a  cigar,  sir,  if  you  like,"  said  St.  John,  with  a 
brisk  assumption  of  the  airs  of  a  genial  host;  "  my  wife 
don't  allow  me  to  smoke,  but  my  guests  always  do.  She 
is  fond  of  cigars,  is  Aggie." 

The  little  wife  looked  up  with  a  demure  and  childlike 
air. 

"  He  never  offers  to  smoke,  sir,"  said  she,  "  because  " — 

"  Because  I  can't  afford  it,"  put  in  St.  John.  "  I  was 
a  great  smoker  in  college;  but  those  were  my  wild  days. 
Thank  you." 

The  last  remark  was  in  acknowledgment  of  an  offered 
cigar.  We  were  soon  puffing  great  cloud-wreaths  to- 
ward the  ceiling,  and  an  air  of  restraint  that  had  rested 
on  us  at  first,  despite  our  efforts  to  avoid  it,  was  speed- 
ily vanished.  Cigars  are  social. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  said  St.  John,  "  you  shall  hear  the 
story  I  promised  you.  I  hope  it  wont  bore  you." 

"  If  it  does  111  cry  out,"  said  I. 

The  little  wife  laughed  quietly. 

"I  graduated;  I  married;  I  came  to  Chicago,"  began 
St.  John,  sententiously. 

"  Feni,  vidi,  trici,"  said  I. 

"Quite  the  contrary;  I  was  conquered.  I  had  that 
idea  which  young  men  from  the  east,  just  out  of  college, 
are  apt  to  have,  that  in  this  great  western  city  there 
was  a  comparative  lack  of  intellectual  culture,  and  that 
a  man  of  my  education  must  speedily  and  easily  get 
into  a  position  of  prominence,  where  my  talents  would 
earn  me  a  fine  living.  But  1  very  soon  found  where 


272  Under  a  Cloud. 

my  mistake  lay.  I  had  not  been  bred  to  work,  —  real, 
practical,  marketable  work,  —  either  mental  or  physical. 
The  professions  were  open  to  me,  as  to  any  other  be- 
ginner, —  nothing  more.  I  could  not  step  out  of  college 
into  a  lucrative  practice  at  the  bar;  but  I  could  enter  a 
law-office,  and  study.  So  of  the  other  professions.  If  I 
had  any  one  idea  more  prominent  than  another,  it  was 
that  I  could  secure  an  editorial  situation  at  once  on  one 
of  the  newspapers  here.  I  was  surprised  to  find  that 
there  was  absolutely  no  demand  for  such  services  as  I 
had  to  offer. 
"  '  Do  you  know  anything  about  the  newspaper  busi- 

^ 

ness  ? '  was  the  first  question  put  to  me,  by  the  first 
publisher  to  whom  I  made  application. 

"  That  was  the  very  last  question  that  I  had  expected 
to  have  asked  of  me.  Of  course  I  imagined  myself  com- 
petent, or  I  should  not  have  applied  for  editorial  em- 
ployment; but  I  knew  the  publisher  meant,  Had  I  had 
actual  experience  on  the  press  ?  I  felt  so  sure  of  my- 
self that  I  was  tempted  to  answer  him  '  Yes,'  but  the 
fact  is  I  was  never  brought  up  with  such  a  reverence  for 
the  truth,  as  to  always  keep  at  a  respectful  distance  from 
it;  so  I  told  him  I  had  not,  but  I  could  quickly  learn. 

(> '  We  are  in  no  need  of  students,'  said  he;  '  and,  even 
if  we  took  you  to  teach  you,  your  pay  would  not  settle 
your  washing-bill.' 

"  One  editor  was  good  enough  to  let  me  try  my  hand 
at  writing  a  political  article.  I  sat  down  in  his  sanctum 
and  went  to  work.  At  the  end  of  two  hours  I  handed 


Under  a  Cloud,  273 

him  what  I  had  written,  quite  confident  that  I  had  set- 
tled the  question  of  utility.  It  was  an  essay  that 
would  have  brought  me  honor  at  college.  He  read  it 
and  smiled. 

" '  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings  at  all,"  said  he, 
1  but  you  have  been  two  hours  about  a  piece  of  work 
that  a  ready  writer  would  knock  off  in  half  an  hour,  and 
now  it  is  done  it  is  good  for  nothing.  You  make  the 
mistake  so  many  have  made  before  you,  that  an  editor 
does  not  need  to  be  bred  to  his  business.  My  alma  ma- 
ter was  a  printing-office,'  said  he,  proudly,  '  and  I  crept 
up  the  ladder  round  by  round.  When  I  commenced 
editorial  labor,  I  dropped  type-setting,  at  which  I  earned 
two  dollars  a  day,  to  handle  the  reporter's  pencil  at 
seven  dollars  a  week.  If  you  think  you  could  do  any- 
thing as  a  reporter,  I'll  show  you  our  Mr.  Pyke,  the 
local  editor.' 

"  Mr.  Pyke  was  a  rough  one. 

"  '  Posted  around  town,'  said  he. 

"  I  told  him  I  was  a  new-comer. 

" '  Know  short-hand  ? ' 

"'No,  sir.' 

" '  What  line  are  you  strongest  in  ?  ' 

"  What  line  ? '  said  I,  not  exactly  understanding. 

" l  Yes,  what  line  ?  Speeches,  fancy-work,  police, 
sensations,  picking  up  items  around  town  —  or  what  ?  ' 

"' I  really  don't  know,' said  I;  'I've  never  had  any 
experience,  practically,  in  the  newspaper  business.' 

"  At  this  Mr.  Pyke  turned  round  on  me  with  a  queer 
look  in  his  face.  24 


274  Under  a  Cloud. 

" '  Oh,  that's  it,'  said  he ;  '  you  want  to  work  at  a 
trade  you  haven't  served  an  apprenticeship  to.  There  ! 
it's  the  old  story.  If  you'll  go  up  in  the  composing- 
room,  they'll  give  you  a  stick  and  put  you  to  setting 
type,  I  reckon.  You  better  try  it.  Go  and  ask  for  our 
foreman,  Mr.  Buckingham,  and  tell  him  I  sent  you,  — 
will  you  ?  Why,  you  couldn't  tell  where  the  e  box  is  ! ' 

"  The  man's  manner  was  not  so  rude  as  his  language, 
sir.  He  seemed  perfectly  good-natured,  and  was  scrib- 
ling  away  with  a  lead-pencil  all  the  while  he  was  talk- 
ing, much  as  if  he  were  a  writing-machine." 

"  Doubtless  he  is,  to  a  great  degree,"  said  I;  "  that  is 
just  where  the  apprenticeship  does  its  work.  I  know 
Pyke,  and  I've  seen  him  write  a  column  of  city  matter, 
carrying  on  conversations  with  half-a-dozen  different 
people  who  dropped  in  during  the  time,  without  inter- 
rupting him  at  all.  But  I  don't  mean  to  interrupt  you; 
go  on,  please." 

"  Well,  sir,"  St.  John  continued,  "  before  I  had  thor- 
oughly learned  the  lesson  that  I  finally  learned  so  well, 
I  was  almost  literally  penniless.  Such  had  been  my 
high  confidence  in  the  easy  and  prosperous  path  before 
me  in  Chicago,  that  when  I  came  here  I  took  board  at  a 
first-class  hotel,  with  my  wife.  I  had  very  little  money, 
and  one  day  I  waked  up  to  the  consciousness  that  I  had 
less  than  five  dollars  remaining  of  that  little,  and  still  no 
work.  Two  hideous  gulfs  yawned  before  me,  —  starva- 
tion and  debt.  My  horror  of  the  one  is  scarcely  greater 
than  my  horror  of  the  other.  Debt  converted  my  father 


Under  a  Cloud.  275 

from  a  well-to-do  man  into  a  bankrupt,  and  my  mother, 
who  owns  the  little  that  is  left  of  our  old  homestead  in 
Massachusetts,  was  and  is  in  no  condition  to  help  me.  I 
would  beg  in  the  streets,  sir,  before  I  would  look  to  my 
poor  mother  for  help,  after  the  long  years  of  self-denial 
she  practised  to  get  me  through  college.  My  wife  is  an 
orphan.  You  may  judge  the  color  my  future  was  tak- 
ing on.  I  left  the  Tremont  House,  and,  falling  at  once 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  style  of  living  in  apart- 
ments, came  here.  I  had  no  confidence  left,  now,  in  that 
future  which  had  before  seemed,  so  foolish  and  inexperi- 
enced was  I,  a  broad  and  flowery  path  for  talent  and 
education  to  tread.  I  never  intend  to  whine  over  any- 
thing in  this  world  if  I  can  help  it,  but  I  can  assure  you 
this  was  a  pretty  dark  old  world  to  Brock  St.  John 
about  that  time.  The  prospect  of  earning  a  dollar  a  day 
would  have  cheered  me  wonderfully.  I  cared  more  on 
account  of  Aggie  than  myself,  of  course.  A  man  can 
bear  ups  and  downs,  kicks,  cold  shoulders,  and  an  empty 
stomach,  if  he  is  alone;  but  the  thought  that  I  have 
dragged  her  down  to  this  is  almost  unbearable  at 
times." 

"  You  have  not  dragged  me,  Brock,"  spoke  up  the  little 
wife;  "I  came  of  my  own  accord  !  " 

"  That  you  did,  Aggie,"  said  the  husband,  his  eyes 
moistening;  "I  am  slandering  you.  But  to  go  on:  The 
day  after  we  moved  in  here,  and  set  up  house-keeping  in 
careful  preparation  for  the  cold  winter  coming  (I»had 
to  pawn  clothing  to  get  these  poor  goods,"  he  added, 


276  Under  a  Cloud. 

looking  about  the  room  with  a  smile),  "the  German 
musician,  who  lives  next  door,  came  in  to  ask  us  if  his 
practising  on  a  trombone  annoyed  us.  We  were  so 
hungry  for  a  friendly  face  just  then,  that  we  would  have 
let  the  good-natured  German  blow  his  trombone  through 
our  transom-window  after  that  exhibition  of  fellow-feel- 
ing. That  afternoon,  I  dropped  in  to  see  him,  in  contin- 
uance of  the  acquaintance.  There  was  a  violin  hanging 
on  the  wall,  and  I  took  it  down  and  played  a  tune  on  it. 

That  was  my  introduction  to  my  first  situation  in  Chica- 
go. Stunim  got  me  my  place  at  the  beer-saloon;  and  so, 
through  the  knowledge  of  an  art  which  has  always  been 
to  me  nothing  more  than  an  amusement,  I  get  enough  to 
live,  in  this  time  when  all  the  hard-earned  culture,  which 
cost  me  so  much  labor,  fails  me  utterly.  I  am  thankful 
for  this,  heartily  thankful;  but  I  don't  need  to  tell  you 
sir,  how  it  galls  me  to  do  this  work,  —  to  sit  three  or 
four  hours  of  every  evening  in  a  dense  and  vulgar  at- 
mosphere, fiddling  for  my  daily  bread.  No  wonder  I  am 
seedy;  no  wonder  I  get  to  look  like  a  loafer,  listless, 
without  pride,  spite  of  Aggie's  wifely  care.  If  I  knew 
an  honest  trade,  I  should  be  a  happy  man.  I  would 
gladly  barter  my  knowledge  of  Latin,  Greek,  and  Ger- 
man for  the  knowledge  of  type-setting." 

"  So  that  you  could  prove  to  Pyke  that  you  know  the 
e  box  from  the  x  box  ?  "  queried  I. 

He  laughed. 

"  But  you  talk  the  words  of  bitterness  when  you  talk 
in  that  way,  St  John.  You  can  barter  your  knowledge 


Under  a  Cloud.  277 

of  German  for  coafc,  and  keep  it  too.    Have  you  ever 
sought  for  pupils  ! " 

"  Only  a  little.  I  have  no  acquaintances,  you  know. 
My  only  way  to  get  pupils  was  to  advertise,  of  course. 
I  tried  it  three  days,  and  got  not  a  solitary  reply.  There 
are  scores  of  teachers  advertising.  It  seemed  useless 
for  me  to  waste  money  in  that  way." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  think  I  can  set  you  in  a  way  of 
getting  up  a  class.  My  own  German  is  very  rusty,  and 
I  will  be  pupil  number  one.  Then  I  know  of  two  or  three 
friends  who  want  to  study  the  language.  I  think  we 
can  get  you  up  a  class  among  us." 

He  made  me  no  protestation  of  gratitude,  —  such 
protestations  are  usually  humbug, — but  I  saw  his  glad- 
ness in  his  face. 

The  little  wife  sat  squeezing  her  fingers  for  joy. 

Before  a  month  had  passed,  St.  John  had  a  large  class 
in  German,  and  bade  adieu  to  fiddling.  He  proved  an 
excellent  teacher.  Long  before  I  left  Chicago  to  resume 
my  residence  in  this  city,  he  had  got  nicely  out  from 
under  his  cloud,  and  was  living  in  a  snug  house  in  the 
"West  Division. 

There  was  a  little  baby  playing  on  the  floor  at  his 
house  last  summer  when  I  called  to  see  him,  on  my  way 
to  Lake  Superior.  That  baby  bears  my  name,  I  am 
proud  to 'say. 

24* 


COMING  FROM  THE  FRONT. 

(279) 


COMING  FROM  THE  FRONT. 


"HEAD-QUARTERS,  DEP'T  AND  ARMY  OF  THK  TENNESSEE. 

"  East  Point,  Georgia,  September  22,  1864. 
"  SPECIAL  ORDERS. 
"  No.  214. 

[EXTRACT.] 

"XI.  Having  tendered  his  resignation,  the  following-named 
officer  is  honorably  discharged  from  the  military  service  of  the 
United  States,  with  condition  that  he  shall  receive  no  final  pay- 
ments until  he  satisfies  the  Pay  Department  that  he  is  not  indebted 
to  the  Government. 

"1st  Lieut. ,  Ills.  Vol.  InPtry. 

"  By  order  of  Maj.  Gen'l  0.  0.  Howard. 

"  (Signed)  W.  T.  CLARK,  Ass't  Adft  Gen'l." 

of  that !    After  forty-one  months    of 
hard-tack  and  hard  marching,  interspersed  with 
enough  fighting  to  satisfy  the  stomach  of  an 
ordinary  man;  after  so  long  an  experience  of 
the  beautiful  uncertainty  of  army  life;   after 
polluting,  with  the  invading  heel  of  my  brogan,  the  sa- 
cred soil  qf  several  of  our  erring  sister  States;   after 
passing  many  breezy  and  rainy  nights  under  the  dubious 
shelter  of  shelter-tents;  after  sitting  through  long  and 
24*  (281) 


282  Coming  from  the  Front. 

weary  days  in  the  furnace-heat  of  narrow  and  dirty 
trenches ;  —  after  all  this,  I  am  at  last  permitted  to  bid 
farewell  to  "  the  front,"  to  go  home  and  doff  the  honor- 
able blue  for  the  more  sober  garb  of  the  "  cit,"  and 
drop  into  my  wonted  insignificance.  That  little  "ex- 
tract "  has  a  sweeter  perfume  for  me  than  any  triple 
extract  for  the  handkerchief  ever  elaborated  by  the  re- 
nowned M.  Lubin.  It  is  fragrant  with  thoughts  of 
home  and  loved  ones  far  away  in  the  Northland,  of 
starry  nights  and  starry  eyes,  of  fluttering  fans  and 
floating  drapery,  of  morning  naps  unbroken  by  the 
strident  ra-tata-ta-ta  of  the  bugle.  I  grow  quite  senti- 
mental over  it,  notwithstanding  the  unpleasant  condi- 
tion with  which  it  is  qualified,  and  which  involves  such 
a  fearful  amount  of  writing  and  figuring  on  mysterious 
close-ruled  blanks,  and  so  much  affidavit-making  and 
other  swearing,  —  especially  at  the  blundering  clerks  in 
the  departments  at  Washington. 

But  this  troubles  me  little  now.  Time  enough  to  at- 
tend to  it  after  I  get  home.  That  is  all  I  can  think  of, 
—  home,  and  how  to  get  there. 

How  I  should  get  there,  and  whether  or  not  I  ever 
would  get  there,  were  questions  not  easily  solved.  It  is 
the  purpose  of  this  sketch  to  show  some  of  the  beauties 
of  travelling  on  railroads  that  are  under  military  con- 
trol, and  especially  to  set  forth  the  writer's  experience 
in  going  from  Atlanta  to  Nashville.  , 

It  was  a  terribly  hot  morning  when  I  reached  the  de- 
pot at  Atlanta,  amid  a  cloud  of  dust  and  a  maze  of 


Coming  from  the  Front.  283 

wagons  and  mules  and  commissary  stores  and  frantic 
teamsters.  I  threw  my  valise- into  the  nearest  car  and 
hastened  to  the  Provost  Marshal's  office  for  my  pass. 
There  was  an  anxious  crowd  already  in  waiting:  resigned 
officers  and  officers  on  leave;  jolly,  ragged  privates  on 
furlough,  eager  to  see  their  wives  and  babies;  sutlers 
and  "  sheap-cloding  "  men ;  flaring  demireps,  seeking  new 
fields;  mouldy  citizens  in  clothes  of  antique  cut,  fawn- 
ing abjectly  and  addressing  every  clerk  and  orderly  as 
"kernel;"  dejected  darkies,  shoved  aside  by  everybody, 
with  no  "  civil  rights  bill "  to  help  them.  While  I  was 
waiting  for  my  turn,  the  train  kept  me  constantly  wor- 
ried by  pulling  up  and  backing  down  and  threatening  to 
leave.  At  last  I  found  an  opportunity  to  exhibit  my 
"  Extract,"  and,  after  reading  it  as  slowly  and  carefully 
as  if  it  had  been  a  dispatch  in  cipher,  the  Provost  Mar- 
shal very  deliberately  wrote  a  pass,  read  it  over  two  or 
three  times,  and  then,  looking  at  every  one  in  the  room 
but  me,  asked  "  Who's  this  for  ?  "  as  if  I  had  not  been 
standing  at  his  elbow  with  my  hand  held  out  for  half  an 
hour. 

I  left  the  official  premises  in  a  highly  exasperated 
state  of  mind.  In  the  mean  time  the  train  had  been 
plunging  backward  and  forward  in  a  wild  and  aimless 
way,  and  I  was  unable  to  find  the  car  my  valise  was  in. 
After  much  wear  and  tear  of  muscle  and  temper  and 
trousers,  in  climbing  over  boxes  and  bales  of  hay,  I  dis- 
covered it,  and  found  that  it  had  been  taken  possession 
of  by  a  crowd  of  roystering  blades  on  furlough,  whose 


284  Coming  from  the  Front. 

canteens  were  full  and  fragrant,  and  in  whose  talk  and 
manner  appeared  the  signs  of  a  boisterous  night  ahead, 
with  the  possibility  of  a  fight  or  two  by  way  of  special 
diversion.  As  I  was  no  longer  in  "  the  military  service 
of  the  United  States,"  I  was,  of  course,  a  peaceable 
citizen,  so  I  took  my  quarters  in  a  more  peaceful'car.  It 
was  a  cattle-car  and  not  remarkably  clean;  but  the  com- 
pany was  good,  and  through  the  lattice-work  around  the 
upper  part  of  the  car  one  could  get  a  view  of  the  sur- 
rounding country;  though  looking  through  it  gave  one 
a  sensation  very  much  like  being  in  a  guard-house. 

"  Will  we  never  get  off  ? "  was  the  question  asked 
dozens  of  times,  —  asked  of  nobody  in  particular,  and 
answered  by  a  chorus  of  incoherent  growls  from  every- 
body in  general,  while  some  humorous  young  man  sug- 
gested that  if  any  one  wanted  to  get  off,  he'd  better  do  it 
before  the  train  started. 

"  Now  we're  off !  " 

"  No  we're  not,"  said  the  humorous  young  man,  "  but 
it's  more'n  likely  we  will  be  before  we  get  to  Chatta- 
nooga." 

This  was  not  particularly  encouraging  to  timid  travel- 
lers, in  a  country  abounding  in  guerrilleroes,  and  where 
accident  insurance  companies  were  unknown. 

Between  Atlanta  and  Marietta  we  passed  line  after 
line  of  defensive  works,  protected  by  abattis  and  cheuaux- 
de-frise,  —  feed-racks,  I  heard  a  bronzed  veteran  of  ru- 
ral antecedents  call  them,  —  built  by  the  rebels  at  night, 
only  to  be  abandoned  on  the  next  night  to  the  great 


Coming  from  the  Front.  285 

Flanker.  While  they  wrought  line  upon  line,  Sherman 
and  his  boys  in  blue  gave  them  precept  upon  precept, 
here  a  little  and  there  a  great  deal.  All  this  rugged 
country  is  historic  ground.  The  tall,  tufted  pine-trees 
stand  as  monuments  of  the  unrecorded  dead,  and  every 
knoll  and  tangled  ravine  bears  "witness  to  a  bravery  and 
heroic  endurance  that  has  never  been  surpassed. 

Leaving  Marietta,  —  deserted  by  its  inhabitants  and 
turned  into  an  immense  hospital,  —  we  approached  Kene- 
saw,  so  lately  crowned  with  cannon  and  alive  with  gray 
coats,  now  basking  in  the  afternoon  sunlight,  as  quiet 
and  harmless  as  a  good-natured  giant  taking  his  after- 
dinner  nap.  We  approached  it  from  the  inside,  to  gain 
which  side  the  compact  columns  of  Logan  and  Stanley 
and  Davis  hurled  themselves  against  its  rugged  front  so 
fearlessly,  but,  alas,  so  fruitlessly,  on  that  terrible  27th 
of  June. 

Farther  on  we  came  to  Alatoona  Pass,  taken  at  first 
without  a  struggle,  but  afterward  baptized  in  blood  and 
made  glorious  by  a  successful  defence  against  immense 
odds. 

It  was  sunset  when  we  reached  Kingston, — a  straggling 
row  of  dilapidated  shanties.  As  the  train  was  to  stop 
some  time,  I  started  out  in  search  of  supper.  There  was 
no  hotel,  so  I  had  to  depend  upon  sutlers,  or  peripatetic 
venders  of  pies.  I  entered  one  sutler's  store,  and  found  a 
few  fly-specked  red  handkerchiefs  and  some  suspenders. 
Another  contained  nothing  but  combs  and  shoe-black- 
ing. Turning  away  mournfully,  I  espied  an  aged  col- 


286  Coming  from  the  Front. 

ored  man  limping  up  the  street  with  a  basket  on  his  arm. 
I  rushed  madly  at  him,  and,  finding  that  he  had  apple- 
pies,  was  soon  the  happy  possessor  of  a  brace  of  them. 
I  congratulated  myself  and  gratefully  sat  down  upon  a 
stone  to  eat,  and  —  well,  such  pies  !  It  was  utterly  im- 
possible to  tell  what  the  crust  was  made  of.  In  taste 
and  toughness  it  resembled  a  dirty  piece  of  towel.  The 
interior  —  "  the  bowels  of  the  thing,"  as  some  one  inele- 
gantly called  it,  —  consisted  of  a  few  slices  of  uncooked 
immature  apple  and  a  great  many  flies  cooked  whole. 
The  cooks  were  altogether  too  liberal  with  their  flies.  I 
am  not  particularly  well  versed  in  the  culinary  art  my- 
self, but  I  venture  boldly  to  say  that  the  flies  that  were 
in  those  two  pies  would  have  sufficed,  if  judiciously  dis- 
tributed, to  season  two  dozen  pies  with  the  same  pro- 
portion of  apple  in  them. 

And  of  such  was  my  supper  at  Kingston.  The  whis- 
tle sounded,  and  we  got  aboard  and  were  off  for  Chatta- 
nooga. Night  fell  peacefully  upon  Kingston  and  its 
dirty  peddlers  of  unwholesome  pies,  as  a  curve  in  the 
road  hid  it  and  them  from  our  reproachful  gaze. 

As  the  darkness  increased,  and  we  went  dashing  at 
break-neck  speed  over  a  road  that  had  had  little  or 
no  care  bestowed  upon  it  since  the  opening  of  the  cam- 
paign, I  thought  of  the  humorous  young  man's  remark, 
and  of  how  unpleasant  and  inconvenient  it  would  be 
to  have  this  long  train  thrown  off  and  its  contents,  as 
Meister  Karl  hath  it,  "  pcpperboxically  distributed  "  in 
the  adjacent  ditch. 


Coming  from  the  Front.  287 

And  then  to  have  one  of  Wheeler's  men  take  advan- 
tage of  a  fellow,  as  he  lay  there  with  a  broken  leg,  and 
rob  him  of  the  few  dollars  he  had  borrowed  to  go  home 
on  !  "Well,  we  had  been  taking  our  chances  for  the  last 
three  years,  and  it  was  no  new  thing  to  take  them  now. 
With  this  comforting  reflection,  I  sat  down  on  my  valise, 
and,  wrapped  in  my  great-coat,  awaited  the  coming  of 
"  the  balmy."  It  was  rather  unsatisfactory  waiting. 
Something  in  my  head  kept  going  rattlety-bang.  jerk  ety- 
jerk,  bumpety-bump,  in  unison  with  the  noise  of  the 
cars;  and  when  I  did  get  into  a  doze,  I  was  harassed  by 
the  dim  shadow  of  a  fear  that  we  were  about  to  leave 
the  track  and  go  end-over-end  down  an  embankment. 
At  last  weariness  overcame  me,  and  I  slept  soundly, 
half-lying  on  the  dirty  floor,  half-leaning  on  my  valise, 
coiled  up  in  one  of  those  attitudes  in  which  only  an  old 
campaigner  can  sleep  at  all;  I  woke  amid  an  unearthly 
whizzing  of  steam,  to  find  the  train  standing  still,  and 
myself  mysteriously  entangled  with  various  arms  and 
legs  that  didn't  belong  to  me.  I  extricated  myself  and 
looked  out.  Through  the  thick  darkness  of  the  early 
morning  there  glared  upon  me  the  light  of  what  seemed 
to  be  inmimerable  fierce,  unwinking  eyes.  I  began  to 
think  that  I  had  taken  the  wrong  train  and  brought  up  in 
the  lower  regions;  but  a  little  reflection  and  rubbing  of 
the  eyes  disclosed  to  me  that  we  had  reached  Chattanooga 
in  safety,  and  that  those  fierce  eyes  were  the  head-lights 
of  the  locomotives  that  had  arrived  during  the  night,  and 
were  now  blowing  oft'  their  superfluous  steam  in.  that 


288  Coming  from  the  Front. 

wild,  unearthly  manner.  As  soon  as  it  was  daylight  I 
inquired  about  trains  going  North,  and  learned  that 
there  was  no  telling  when  a  train  would  go,  as  Forrest 
was  said  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  road.  So 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  to  the  Crutchfield 
House  and  wait.  Alas  for  the  man  whose  purse  is  slim, 
under  any  circumstances  !  Alas  and  alas  for  him  if  he 
was  obliged  to  wait  in  Chattanooga  at  Crutchfield  prices  ! 
It  was  a  dollar  that  he  had  to  pay  for  each  scanty  meal, 
a  dollar  for  the  tise  of  a  densely  populated  bed,  and  a 
dollar  must  be  deposited  with  the  clerk  to  secure  the 
return  of  the  little  towel  he  wiped  his  face  on.  Besides 
the  pecuniary  depletion  that  he  suffered,  he  was  bored  to 
death  with  weary  waiting,  with  nothing  to  do  and  no- 
where to  go.  Chattanooga  was  far  from  being  a 
cheerful  place,  especially  in  the  rainy  season,  when  noth- 
ing was  visible  out  of  doors  except  the  lonesome  sen- 
tinels pacing  their  beats  in  dripping  ponchos,  and  with 
guns  tucked  under  their  arms,  and  here  and  there  a  team 
of  steaming  mules,  struggling  to  draw  a  creaking,  lum- 
bering wagon  through  the  detestable  clay. 

For  amusement,  there  was  a  billiard-room,  where  one 
had  to  wait  eight  hours  for  a  chance  to  play.  If  he  failed 
to  see  any  fun  in  this,  he  could  step  into  another  room, 
and  squander  his  currency  for,  and  bemuddle  his  brains 
with,  a  sloppy  sort  of  beverage  that  the  gentlemanly 
proprietor  would  assure  him  was  good,  new  beer.  I 
would  rather  take  his  word  than  his  beer.  At  night,  if 
his  tastes  ran  that  way,  for  a  small  outlay  one  could 


Coming  from  the  Front.  289 

witness  what  was  called  a  dramatic  exhibition,  but 
which  was  really  more  anatomical  than  dramatic. 

In  this  enlivening  village,  an  ever-increasing  crowd 
of  us  was  compelled  to  wait  for  five  long  days.  Ke- 
signed  officers  were  far  from  being  resigned,  and  officers 
on  leave  were  vexed  and  impatient  because  it  was  im- 
possible to  leave. 

At  length  the  joyful  news  spread  that  a  train  would 
leave  for  Nashville  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  I 
rushed  to  the  depot,  and  was  just  fairly  aboard  a  car, 
when  some  one,  more  forcibly  than  politely,  told  me  to 
"  git  out  o'  that  car."  As  he  spoke  as  a  man  who  had 
authority,  and  knew  it,  I  got  out,  and  learned  that  I 
was  on  the  wrong  train,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  have  been 
carried  to  Knoxville.  I  forgave  the  man  his  abruptness 
of  speech,  and  went  in  search  of  the  right  train.  Catch- 
ing a  glimpse  of  Capt.  S.,  whom  I  knew  to  be  going 
North,  in  one  of  the  cars,  I  got  in  without  farther  ques- 
tion; and  soon  a  fearful  jerk,  that  piled  us  like  dead- 
wood  in  one  end  of  the  car,  started  us  towards  Nash- 
ville. Eattling  along  at  the  usual  reckless  rate,  we 
found  ourselves,  soon  after  dark,  at  Stevenson,  Alabama. 
Here  we  were  to  stay  all  night;  for  the  managers  of 
affairs  still  had  the  fear  of  Forrest  before  their  eyes,  and 
dared  not  run  trains  at  night.  It  was  raining,  and  the 
darkness  of  Erebus  covered  the  face  of  the  earth.  Not- 
withstanding this,  Capt.  S.  and  myself  plunged  out  into 
the  night,  determined  to  get  something  to  eat,  or  perish 
in  the  attempt.  After  wandering  blindly  for  a  while,  — 
25* 


290  Coming  from  the  Front. 

tumbling  into  ditches,  and  falling  over  boxes  and  bar- 
rels, that  turned  up  where  they  were  least  expected,  — 
we  finally  brought  up  among  the  ropes  of  the  tent  of  a 
sutler.  We  entered,  and  found  the  proprietor  dozing 
over  a  dime  novel.  We  were  sorry  to  disturb  him  in 
his  literary  pursuits ;  but  we  were  hungry,  and  had  to 
be  fed.  We  eagerly  demanded  various  articles  of  food, 
which  he  sleepily  informed  us  he  hadn't  got  Question- 
ing him  closely  as  to  the  edible  part  of  his  stock  in 
trade,  we  learned  that  it  consisted  of  some  Boston 
crackers  and  a  little  cheese.  We  filled  our  haversacks 
with  these,  regardless  of  expense.  Having  bought  so 
generously,  the  proprietor  became  generous  in  turn, 
and,  bringing  forth  a  square  black  bottle,  proffered  it  to 
us  with  the  remark:  "You'll  find  that  a  leetle  the  best 
gin  this  side  o'  Louisville.  Take  hold  !  "  The  captain 
took  hold;  but  the  silent,  though  expressive  comment, 
that  was  written  on  his  countenance  when  he  let  go, 
induced  me  to  decline  with  thanks.  A  decent  regard 
for  the  man's  feelings  prevented  any  audible  expression; 
but,  as  soon  as  we  were  out  of  the  tent,  the  captain  sol- 
emnly assured  me  that  he  was  poisoned,  and  that  he 
would  utter  his  last  words  when  he  got  comfortably 
fixed  in  the  car.  Getting  back  to  the  car  was  almost  as 
perilous  an  undertaking  as  finding  the  sutler's  store; 
but,  fortunately,  we  were  guided  by  the  voice  of  Capt. 
W.  crying,  in  heart-rending  tones,  "Lost  child  I  lost 
child  ! "  Capt.  S.  interrupted  one  of  his  most  pathetic 
cries  by  striking  him  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach  with  a 


Coming  from  the  Front.  291 

loaded  haversack,  and  demanding  to  be  helped  aboard. 
Once  more  snugly  ensconced  in  our  car,  we  proceeded 
to  sup  right  royally  on  our  crackers  and  cheese.  S. 
forgot  all  about  his  last  words  until  some  time  near  the 
middle  of  the  night,  when  he  woke  me  to  say  that  he 
had  concluded  to  postpone  them  till  he  got  home,  where 
he  could  have  them  published  in  the  county  paper. 
Barring  this  interruption,  I  slept  soundly  all  night,  hav- 
ing more  room  than  on  the  trip  from  Atlanta,  and  not 
having  the  thunder  of  a  running  train  sounding  in  my 
ears. 

At  breakfast-time  we  drew  out  the  fragmentary  re- 
mainder of  our  last  night's  repast,  and  were  about  to 
take  our  morning  meal,  when  we  discovered  that  both 
crackers  and  cheese  had  a  singularly  animated  appear- 
ance. Symptoms  of  internal  commotion  manifested 
themselves  in  all  of  us  except  S.,  who  thought  that,  as 
the  gin  had  not  killed  him,  he  was  proof  against  any- 
thing. His  stoic  composure  acted  soothingly  upon  the 
rest  of  us,  and  we  concluded  that  it  was  too  late  to  feel 
bad,  and  consoled  each  other  by  repeating  the  little 
rhyme,  — 

"  What  can't  be  cured 
Must  be  endured." 

By  eight  o'clock  the  fog  lifted,  and  we  started  on  our 
journey  northward.  Wild  and  contradictory  stories 
were  afloat  in  regard  to  the  whereabouts  and  doings 
of  the  terrible,  ubiquitous  Forrest.  Revolvers  were 
brought  out  and  capped  and  primed  afresh,  and  watches 


292  Coming  from  the  Front. 

and  rings  were  hidden  in  what  were  deemed  inaccessible 
parts  of  the  clothing.  There  was  considerable  anxiety 
in  regard  to  the  bridges  over  Elk  and  Duck  rivers,  and 
when  we  had  passed  them  both  safely,  the  train  quick- 
ened its  speed,  every  one  breathed  more  freely,  and  the 
belligerent  men  put  away  their  fire-arms. 

"We  hastened  on  without  accident  and  with  decreasing 
fear,  though  the  debris  of  broken  and  burned  cars 
that  lined  the  roadside,  suggesting  some  unpleasant  re- 
flections, and  at  the  close  of  the  day  entered  the  picket 
lines  at  Nashville,  and  were  safe. 

Then  came  a  foot-race,  from  the  depot  to  the  hotel, 
for  a  prize  that  nobody  won,  for  all  the  hotels  in  the 
city  were  already  full  from  cellar  to  garret.  Capt.  S. 
and  I  sat  down  upon  the  cold,  hard  curb-stone  and 
mingled  our  weary  groans,  Avhile  "VV.,  more  plucky  and 
better  acquainted  with  the  city,  went  in  search  of  a 
boarding-house.  Having  returned,  with  the  cheering 
intelligence  that  he  had  found  beds  and  supper,  we  fol- 
lowed him  gladly,  and,  after  eating  a  supper,  the  quan- 
tity of  which  I  would  not  like  to  confess,  retired  to  our 
rooms,  and  were  soon  —  to  use  the  captain's  elegant 
language  —  "  wrapped  in  that  dreamless,  refreshing 
slumber  that  only  descends  upon  the  pillow  of  the 
innocent  and  beautiful." 


A  NIGHT  IN  THE   SEWERS. 

(293) 


A  NIGHT  IN  THE  SEWERS. 


"  ERHAPS  some  of  my  fair  readers  will  consider 
me  a  disagreeable  person  for  telling  them  some- 
thing I  know  about  kid  gloves.  Perhaps  they 
will  not  believe  me  when  I  tell  them  that  in 
Paris  and  elsewhere  there  exists  —  or  did  exist  not 
very  long  ago  —  an  extensive  trade  in  the  skins  of 
common  rats,  and  that  these  skins,  when  dressed  and 
dyed,  are  converted  into  those  delicate  coverings  for  the 
hands,  commonly  called  "  kid  "  gloves,  and  supposed  to 
be  manufactured  from  the  hides  of  immature  goats. 

I  was  acquainted  with  a  dog-dealer  in  Paris,  a  Dane, 
whose  name  was  Beck.  To  him  I  went  one  day,  bent 
upon  obtaining  a  terrier  dog  of  good  intellect  and 
agreeable  manners,  who  should  be  a  companion  to  me  in 
my  "  lodgings  for  single  gentlemen,"  and  whose  gambols 
might  serve  to  amuse  me  in  my  lighter  hours,  when,  af- 
ter work,  I  would  make  little  pedestrian  excursions  in  the 
neighborhood,  for  the  sake  of  exercise  and  air.  Beck's 
kennel  was  comprised  in  a  small  yard,  at  the  back  of  a 
rickety  house;  and,  when  I  entered  it,  persuasion  was 

(295) 


296  A  Night  in  the  Sewers. 

hardly  needed  to  induce  me  to  stand  as  near  the  centre 
of  the  enclosure  as  possible,  in  order  to  keep  at  chain's 
length  from  what  the  French  call  'boule  dogues,  several 
of  which  ill-looking  canines  formed  a  portion  of  Beck's 
stock  in  trade. 

"  Here,"  said  Mr.  Beck,  in  reply  to  a  question  of  mine 
and  in  pretty  good  English,  "  here  in  this  box  I  have  a 
small  dog  of  a  kind  quite  fashionable  now.  They  call 
him  a  Skye  terrier,  and  I  have  given  him  the  name  of 
'  Dane,'  because  he  comes  from  far  north,  like  myself, 
and  has  long  yellow  hair." 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Beck  laid  hold  of  a  chain,  and 
drawing  it  sharply,  jerked  out  from  among  some  straw  a 
creature  made  up,  apparently,  of  tow  and  wire,  with  a 
pair  of  eyes  like  black  beads  glittering  through  the 
shocks  of  hair  that  fell  over  its  head.  The  animal 
seemed  cowed,  and  I  did  not  think  much  of  him  at  first 
sight. 

"  He  has  had  bad  usage,"  said  Mr.  Beck;  "  first  time  I 
saw  him  was  yesterday,  when  he  burst  in  at  my  back- 
door, with  a  horse-shoe  fastened  to  his  tail.  There,  you 
see  I  have  nailed  the  shoe  over  the  door  of  his  box.  He 
will  be  a  lucky  bargain  for  whoever  buys  him,  you  may 
depend  upon  that." 

"  Good  upon  rats  ?  "  asked  I. 

"  Know  nothing  about  him,"  replied  Mr.  Beck,  honest- 
ly; "never  saw  him  before  yesterday.  They  all  take 
the  water  kindly  though,  these  Skyes  do,  and  if  you 
want  to  try  him  at  rats,  I  can  put  you  in  the  way  of  it." 


A  Night  in  the  Sewers.  297 

Somehow  I  took  to  the  ragged  little  beast,  and  so  I 
paid  Mr.  Beck  sixty  francs  for  him,  and  ten  more  for  the 
little  wooden  kennel  with  the  horseshoe  nailed  upon  it. 
I  have  a  great  regard  for  horseshoes  as  insurers  of 
luck;  because  once,  when  I  had  picked  up  one  on  the 
road,  and  carried  it  home  in  my  pocket,  I  found  a  letter 
on  my  table,  informing  me  that  I  had  come  in  for  a 
small  legacy,  through  the  death  of  an  aged  kinswoman 
whom  I  had  never  seen. 

What  with  good  treatment  and  diet,  the  frequent  bath 
and  the  free  use  of  the  comb,  it  was  not  many  days  be- 
fore master  Dane  became  a  very  presentable  dog,  and 
had  quite  recovered  his  pluck  and  spirits.  He  bullied, 
and  banished  forever  to  the  house-top,  a  large  tortoise- 
shell  cat,  that  had  hitherto  commanded  the  garrison,  and 
I  thought,  one  day,  that  I  should  like  to  try  him  at  rats. 
So  out  I  sallied  with  him  in  search  of  Mr.  Beck,  who 
had  promised  to  put  me  in  the  way  of  getting  some 
sport  of  the  kind. 

That  versatile  gentleman  was  not  in  his  kennel  when 
I  called,  but  his  wife  told  me  that  I  would  find  him  in 
the  "skinnery"  attached  to  the  establishment;  and, 
asking  me  to  follow  her,  she  ushered  me  into  a  long,  low 
apartment,  lighted  with  a  row  of  circular  windows. 
The  odor  of  the  place  was  very  pungent  and  disagree- 
able. There  were  several  wooden  tanks  ranged  along 
one  wall  of  the  room,  and,  on  lines  stretched  along  by 
the  windows,  a  number  of  small  skins  were  hung  to  dry. 
Mr.  Beck,  assisted  by  a  couple  of  tan-colored  boys,  was 

26 


298  A  Night  in  the  Sewers. 

busily  engaged  in  stirring  the  contents  of  the  tanks.  A 
dead  rat  on  the  floor  immediately  engaged  the  attention 
of  Dane,  who  seized  it  in  his  teeth,  shook  it  savagely 
for  a  moment,  and  then  pitched  it  away  from  him,  ap- 
parently in  disgust  at  finding  it  already  dead. 

"  What  do  you  make  of  the  rat-skins  ?  "  inquired  I, 
after  I  had  looked  on  for  a  while. 

"  Money,"  rejoined  Mr.  Beck,  curtly;  "  but  the  man  I 
dress  them  for  makes  them  into  gloves,  —  ladies'  gloves, 
of  the  primest  quality." 

"  Ladies  have  rats  about  them  in  more  ways  than  one, 
then,"  said  I.  "  Where  do  you  get  the  raw  material  ?  " 

"  The  rat-hunters  supply  me.  Their  hunting-grounds 
lie  all  under  the  streets  of  Paris.  Would  you  like  to 
have  a  day  in  the  sewers  with  your  terrier  ?  Simonet 
will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes,  and  you  can  go  the  rounds 
with  him  if  you  will." 

Just  what  I  wanted,  and  so  I  sat  upon  a  bench  and 
waited,  and  presently  a  man  came  in.  He  was  a  low- 
sized,  squat  fellow  of  about  forty,  with  heavy,  round 
shoulders,  and  bowed  legs;  and  his  head  and  face  were 
almost  entirely  covered  with  a  thatch  of  tangled  red 
hair,  out  from  which  there  peered  a  couple  of  green- 
ish eyes  of  very  sinister  expression.  He  had  a  leath- 
ern sack  slung  over  his  shoulder,  and  carried  in  his 
hand  a  long  wand  of  birch,  brushy,  with  the  twigs  left 
upon  it  at  one  end. 

"  On  the  rounds,  eh,  Simonet  ?  "  said  Mr.  Beck,  ad- 
dressing this  agreeable-looking  gentleman ;  "  well,  here's 


A  Night  in  the  Sewers.  299 

a  monsieur  who  would  like  to  go  with  you.  He  wants  to 
try  his  terrier  at  the  rats.  You  can  make  your  own 
bargain  with  him." 

Then  looking  at  me,  he  continued,  — 

"  Better  leave  your  coat  with  my  old  woman,  who'll 
give  you  a  clean  blouse  instead." 

Madame  took  my  coat,  and  gave  me  a  strong  blouse 
and  a  somewhat  greasy  cap;  and  in  this  guise  I  went 
forth  with  Simonet,  who  immediately  plunged  into  the 
thick  of  the  city  slums.  After  having  gone  some  dis- 
tance, we  entered  a  dismal  and  dirty  office,  in  which 
a  man,  turning  over  some  piles  of  documents,  after  a 
few  whispered  words  with  my  guide,  handed  him  a 
bunch  of  heavy  keys,  and  we  again  went  out  into  the 
streets.  Entering  a  paved  court-yard,  a  declivity  led  us 
down  to  a  sort  of  tunnel,  the  entrance  to  which  was 
barred  by  a  heavy,  grated  door,  which  Simonet  opened 
with  one  of  the  keys,  locking  it  again  as  soon  as  we  had 
got  in. 

"  We  are  in  one  of  the  main  sewers  now,  monsieur," 
said  he,  in  a  squeaky,  rat-like  voice;  "you  must  be  care- 
ful to  keep  close  by  me,  and  not  stray  away  into  any  of 
the  branches." 

It  was  pitch  dark,  as  I  looked  before  me  into  the  tun- 
nel, —  dark,  and  awful,  and  silent,  but  for  the  gliding, 
oozing  sound  of  slowly-flowing  water.  Simonet  pro- 
duced a  lantern,  which  he  lit,  and  I  could  see  by  the  dim 
light  thrown  from  it  that  we  were  in  a  vast  stone  pas- 
sage, through  the  centre  of  which  there  ran  a  dark,  deep 


3oo  A  Night  in  the  Sewers. 

stream.  Between  the  wall  and  the  stream  on  either 
side  there  was  a  broad  pathway,  or  ledge,  and  along 
this  the  rat-hunter  motioned  me  to  follow  him.  Soon 
we  reached  a  turn  in  the  tunnel,  and  here  Simonet, 
after  searching  about  upon  the  wall  for  a  moment,  found 
a  rusty  nail  in  it,  upon  which  he  hung  his  lantern. 
Then  producing  a  couple  of  torches  from  his  sack,  ho 
lighted  them,  and  handed  one  to  me. 

"  There  is  a  birch  wattle  hid  away  somewhere  here," 
said  he,  —  "  ah,  yes  !  —  here  it  is,  take  it  monsieur,  and 
use  it  just  as  you  shall  see  me  do  when  we  get  among 
the  rats.  Keep  close  to  me,  else  you  may  get  lost  in  the 
drains." 

Dane  grew  very  excited,  now,  and  ran  ahead  of  us  a 
good  way,  and  presently  we  heard  a  great  rushing  and 
squeaking,  and  the  suppressed  snarling  of  the  little  dog 
as  he  worried  the  rats.  Then  we  saw  many  rats  running 
hither  and  thither,  some  of  them  so  scared  by  the  light 
'of  the  torches,  as  they  came  near  us,  that  they  leaped 
into  the  water,  while  others  ran  up  the  wall,  from 
which  we  quickly  knocked  them  with  our  wattles.  Si- 
monet did  not  put  them  into  his  bag,  but  left  them  where 
they  fell,  saying  that  his  custom  was  to  pick  them  up  on 
his  way  back. 

The  dog  behaved  wonderfully  well,  fighting  and  shak- 
ing the  rats  that  fell  in  his  way  with  great  fierceness  and 
pluck.  5lt  last,  when  we  had  killed  about  a  hundred  of 
them,  we  thought  it  time  to  rest.  Simonet  produced  a 
short,  black  pipe,  and,  as  I  was  filling  mine,  he  cast  a  wist- 


A  Night  in  the  Sewers.  301 

ful  look  at  my  tobacco-pouch,  thinking,  probably,  that  the 
article  contained  in  it  must  be  of  a  quality  superior  to 
that  of  the  cheap  stuff  smoked  by  him  ;  so  I  poured  half 
the  contents  of  it  into  his  hand,  and  he  filled  his  pipe 
from  it,  with  a  grin  of  satisfaction  on  his  ugly  face. 

"  It  will  soon  be  time  for  us  to  turn  back,"  said  he, 
after  a  while;  "the  best  place  for  rats  is  a  little  way 
further  on,  and  it  will  be  too  late  to  try  it  if  we  don't  go 
forward  now." 

On  we  went,  slashing  right  and  left  at  the  rats,  most 
of  which,  I  noticed,  were  of  a  very  black  color  here,  as 
if  belonging  to  a  peculiar  colony  that  existed  in  this  part 
of  the  tunnel.  As  we  rounded  a  corner,  however,  a  very 
large  white  rat  ran  past  us,  and  disappeared  down  a 
cross-gallery  that  led  away  to  the  left.  Wishing  to  se- 
cure this  animal  as  a  trophy,  I  hallooed  the  terrier  upon 
its  tracks,  and  was  about  following  the  chase,  when 
Sirnonet  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm,  and  whispered,  in  a 
tone  of  entreaty, — 

"  Don't  risk  your  life,  monsieur  I  He  who  follows  the 
white  rat  of  the  sewer  is  likely  never  to  find  his  way 
back  alive.  There's  a  blight  about  the  creature,  and  old 
stories  are  afloat  of  how  it  has  led  rat-hunters  away  into 
dangerous  parts  of  the  sewers,  like  a  jack-o'-lantern,  and 
then  set  upon  them  with  a  number  of  its  kind,  and  picked 
their  bones  clean  !  " 

Breaking  away  from  the  fellow,  with  a  jerk  that 
knocked  the  pipe  out  of  his  hand,  and  sent  it  spinning 
into  the  black  water  below,  I  ran  down  the  by-sewer 
26* 


302  A  Night  in  the  Sewers. 

after  the  terrier,  whose  whimper,  as  though  he  were  yet 
in  full  chase,  I  could 'hear  at  a  good  distance  ahead  of 
me.  "When  I  came  up  with  him,  which  I  did  only  after 
having  taken  several  turns,  he  seemed  at  fault,  head  up 
and  tail  down,  and  gazing,  with  a  very  puzzled  expres- 
sion up  at  the  vaulted  roof.  There  was  no  white  rat  to 
be  seen,  nor  could  I  detect  any  aperture  in  the  walls, 
into  which  the  creature  could  have  made  its  escape. 
Then  a  sort  of  superstitious  fear  fell  upon  me,  as  I 
thought  of  Simonet's  warning,  and,  with  a  word  of  en- 
couragement to  the  dog,  I  hastened  to  retrace  my  steps, 
shouting  loudly  every  now  and  then,  so  as  to  let  the  rat- 
hunter  know  of  my  whereabouts.  But  no  responsive 
halloo  came  to  my  call.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard 
but  the  hollow  beat  of  my  footsteps  on  the  damp,  mouldy 
path,  and  the  squeaking,  here  and  there,  of  the  rats,  as  we 
disturbed  them  from  their  feast  on  some  garbage  fished 
up  by  them  from  the  slimy  bed  of  the  drain.  Excited  at 
the  position  in  which  I  found  myself,  I  now  began  to 
make  reckless  detours  hither  and  thither,  until,  thorough- 
ly exhausted  by  my  exertions,  I  leaned  my  back  against 
the  wall,  and  tried  to  remember  such  marks  as  might 
have  been  observed  by  me  in  the  tunnel  since  I  had 
parted  from  Simonet.  The  only  marks  of  the  wayside 
that  I  could  recall,  however,  were  the  dead  rats  left  by 
us  upon  the  ledge  as  we  passed,  and  of  these  I  had  seen 
none  while  I  was  trying  to  retrace  my  steps.  Arguing 
from  this,  and  from  the  fact  that  Simonet  did  not  respond 
to  my  shouts,  which  I  continued  to  utter  at  intervals,  I 


A  Night  in  the  Sewers.  303 

began  to  feel  au  extremely  unpleasant  nervous  shiver 
creeping  over  me,  suggestive  of  all  the  horrors  about 
which  I  had  ever  read  or  dreamed.  The  little  dog  lay 
cowering  at  my  feet,  as  if  he,  too,  were  somewhat  de- 
jected at  the  prospect  of  being  ea.ten  alive  by  aveng- 
ing rats  ;  and,  to  crown  the  situation,  just  as  I  had 
nerved  myself  for  another  effort  to  recover  the  lost  clue, 
my  torch  went  out  with  a  malignant  flicker,  and  I  found 
myself  in  black  darkness ! 

Sinking  down  at  the  foot  of  the  wall,  I  now  gave  my- 
self up  for  lost.  Even  had  the  torch  not  been  quite 
burnt  out,  I  had  no  means  of  relighting  it,  having  used 
my  last  match  when  we  stopped  to  smoke,  just  before 
I  broke  away  from  my  guide.  I  think  I  must  have 
become  somewhat  delirious  now;  for  I  have  a  faint 
recollection  of  wild  songs  chanted,  and  of  yells  that 
made  the  vaulted  roof  ring  again.  Then  a  heavy  sleep 
must  have  fallen  upon  me,  which  probably  lasted  for 
several  hours;  and  then  I  awoke  to  a  dim  consciousness 
of  horror,  as  I  began  to  realize  the  terrible  situation 
into  which  I  had  brought  myself  by  my  reckless  folly. 
My  dog  was  still  nestling  close  to  me;  and  it  may  have 
been  to  his  presence,  perhaps,  that  I  owed  the  fact  of 
my  not  having  been  mangled  by  rats  during  my  sleep. 
Rising  with  difficulty  to  my  feet,  for  I  was  stiff  from  lying 
so  long  upon  the  damp,  cold  ground,  I  once  more  tried  to 
shout;  but  my  voice  was  utterly  gone,  from  my  previous 
exertion  of  it,  and  I  could  not  raise  it  above  a  whisper. 
Then,  in  sheer  desperation,  I  dragged  myself  along  the 


304  A  Night  in  the  Sewers. 

wall,  feeling  the  way  with  my  hands,  and  had  not  gone 
many  paces' when  I  felt  an  angle  in  the  masonry,  on 
rounding  which  a  ray  of  hope  dawned  upon  me,  as  I 
discerned  a  faint  light,  far,  far  away,  at  the  end  of  what 
seemed  to  be  all  but.  an  endless  shaft  of  darkness.  The 
prospect  of  escape  infused  new  vigor  into  my  weary 
limbs,  and  I  kept  steering  onward  for  the  light,  which 
grew  larger  and  larger  as  I  approached  it.  At  last  I 
got  near  enough  to  see  that  it  came  through  a  small 
grille,  or  iron  door,  which  terminated  the  branch  of  the 
sewer  in  which  I  was.  When  I  reached  the  grating,  I 
saw  that  it  looked  out  upon  the  river,  between  which 
and  it,  however,  there  lay  a  deep  indentation,  or  chan- 
nel, of  some  fifty  or  sixty  yards  in  length.  It  was  gray 
morning,  and  I  could  see  boats  and  steamers  and  ships, 
passing  and  repassing  upon  the  river.  Surely  deliver- 
ance was  now  at  hand  !  but  how  was  I  to  make  my 
situation  known  ?  My  voice,  as  I  have  said,  was  ut- 
terly gone,  and  I  had  barely  strength  left  to  wave  my 
pocket-handkerchief  from  the  grating.  There  I  stood  for 
hours,  —  a  prisoner  looking  wistfully  through  the  bars 
of  a  dungeon  to  which  no  wayfarer  came.  I  had  sunk 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  grating,  from  mere  exhaustion, 
when  the  whining  of  my  little  dog  attracted  me,  and  I 
gave  him  a  caressing  pat.  He  licked  my  face  and 
whined  again,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Can't  I  be  of  some 
use  to  you  ?  "  This  brought  a  bright  idea  to  my  mind. 
Tearing  a  leaf  from  my  note-book,  I  wrote  the  following 
words  upon  it,  with  pencil:  — 


A  Night  in  the  Sewers.  305 

"  I  have  lost  my  way  in  the  sewers.  You  will  find 
me  at  the  grating  just  opposite  a  large  buoy  marked  X. 
Come  quickly." 

Placing  this  inside  my  india-rubber  tobacco-pouch,  I 
bound  it  tightly,  with  a  strip  from  my  pocket-handker- 
chief, to  Dane's  collar;  and  then,  taking  the  little  fellow 
gently  in  my  arms,  and  speaking  a  word  or  two  of  dog- 
talk  to  him,  I  dropped  him  from  the  grating  into  the 
stream  below,  which  was  running  out  fast  enough  to 
prevent  him  from  trying  to  return;  nor  was  it  long  be- 
fore I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  swimming 
boldly  out  toward  the  river,  as  if  he  knew  perfectly 
well  what  he  was  about.  I  had  no  fears  but  that  some- 
body in  a  boat  would  pick  him  up  before  he  was  ex- 
hausted, because  this  kind  of  dog  can  live  for  a  great 
while  in  the  water.  Yet  he  was  gone  fof  a  long,  long 
time,  —  at  least,  it  seemed  a  long  time  to  me,  —  and  I 
saw  the  distant  boats  passing  and  repassing,  and  the 
steamers  and  the  ships,  and  heard  the  cheery  voices  of 
the  mariners,  as  I  held  on  there  by  the  iron  grating, 
half-dead.  At  last  a  boat,  pulled  by  two  men  and 
steered  by  a  third,  shot  up  into  the  channel;  and  the 
boatmen  raised  a  joyful  shout  as  I  waved  my  hand- 
kerchief to  them  from  my  prison-bars.  The  steersman 
held  my  little  dog  upon  his  knee ;  but  the  faithful  ani- 
mal broke  away  from  him  when  he  saw  me,  and  would 
have  jumped  overboard  in  his  eagerness  to  reach  me 
had  he  not  been  caught  by  one  of  the  men. 


306  A  Night  in  the  Sewers. 

When  the  boat  had  come  quite  close  under  the  grat- 
ing, I  saw  that  it  was  manned  by  men  of  the  river 
guard.  They  told  me  that  one  of  their  number  had 
gone  round  to  report  the  matter  to  the  proper  authori- 
ties, and  that  assistance  would  quickly  be  at  hand,  and 
one  of  them,  standing  on  the  thwarts  of  the  boat,  reached 
up  to  me  a  flask  of  brandy  and  a  biscuit,  after  having 
partaken  of  which  I  felt  sufficiently  revived  to  be  very 
thankful  for  my  escape  from  a  horrible  death.  In  less 
than  an  hour  keys  were  brought  by  an  officer  connected 
with  the  sewers,  and  I  was  released  from  my  disagree- 
able position,  much  to  the  joy  of  Dane,  who  covered  me 
with  caresses  after  his  honest  doggy  fashion;  nor,  half- 
starved  as  the  little  animal  must  have  been,  would  he 
touch  a  morsel  of  biscuit  until  after  he  had  seen  me  safe 
in  the  boat. 

The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  make  a  search  for 
Simonet,  who  had  not  made  his  appearance  in  the  upper 
regions  since  we  entered  the  sewers.  Men  were  sent 
after  him,  and  he  was  found  in  a  half-stupefied  condition 
just  where  I  had  left  him,  among  the  dead  rats.  He 
could  give  little  or  no  account  of  himself,  save  that  his 
torch  had  gone  out,  just  as  he  was  about  starting  in 
search  of  me,  and  that  a  stupor  came  over  him,  then, 
and  he  sat  down  and  fell  asleep.  This  was  all  accounted 
for  afterwards.  Having  lost  his  pipe,  as  I  have  said,  he 
sought  to  assuage  his  craving  for  stimulants  by  chewing 
—  or  rather  eating  —  quantities  of  the  tobacco  with 
which  I  had  furnished  him,  and  this  proved,  on  examina- 


A  Night  in  the  Sewers.  307 

tion,  to  have  been  taken  by  me,  in  mistake,  from  a  jar 
in  which  opium  had  been  copiously  mixed  with  the 
milder  narcotic  for  experimental  purposes.  Probably 
the  little  I  had  smoked  of  it  in  my  pipe  had  somewhat 
affected  me;  and  Simonet  averred  that  he  thought  it 
must  have  been  the  smell  of  it  that  saved  us  from  being 
eaten  by  the  rats.  A  few  franc  pieces,  a  new  pipe,  and 
a  reasonable  stock  of  the  best  tobacco,  made  a  happy 
man  of  that  rare  old  gutter-snipe;  but  nothing  could 
induce  him  to  make  any  further  reference  to  the  white 
rat,  at  the  very  mention  of  which  he  would  scowl  hor- 
ribly, and  retire,  as  it  were,  behind  the  mass  of  red  hair 
with  which  his  face  was  fringed. 

As  for  me,  I  believe  more  in  horse-shoes  than  ever, 
since  the  adventure  narrated  above.  I  had  a  small  one 
made  in  silver,  for  Dane;  and  this  the  faithful  animal 
wore  suspended  from  his  collar  as  a  charm  until  he  went 
the  way  of  all  dogs,  full  of  honors  and  of  years. 


, 


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